Spin
by PhantomInspector
Summary: OUAT/Wicked fusion. How does a poor spinner become a dark sorcerer? A shepherd a prince? A desperate girl an evil queen? Is history fated or chosen? Born with powers he can't yet control, Rumplestiltskin moves to a new town with his son Baelfire and meets the people who will shape his destiny, for good and ill.
1. Child of the Owl-Glass

Merry Christmas, everyone! Happy holidays all around. So, this is that other OUAT fic that took me months to write just the first chapter for. Letting you know right now that each of these chapters are going to be quite long, so expect extensive waiting periods between them. Enjoy!

Note: lots of references in this story. I won't point them all out - only the few that seem important to explain.

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"_The silkworm moth, _Bombyx mori,_ which lives in white-fruited mulberry trees is a member of the _Bombycidae _or spinners, a subspecies of the _Lepidoptera _which, together with the _Saturnidae, _includes some of the most beautiful of all moths . . . The fully developed silkworm moth, however, is an unprepossessing creature measuring a mere one and a half inches across and an inch lengthways . . . A few days after the last sloughing one can notice a redness on the throat, which heralds the onset of metamorphosis. The caterpillar now stops eating, runs about restlessly, and, seeking to leave the low earth behind, strives to gain greater heights, until it has found the right place and can start to weave its cell . . . During its first day of work, the caterpillar spins an extensive, disorderly fragmented web which is used to secure the cocoon. And then, constantly moving its head back and forth and reeling out an uninterrupted thread almost a thousand yards long, it constructs the actual egg-shaped casing around itself. In this shell, which admits neither air nor moisture, the caterpillar changes into a nymph by sloughing off its skin for one last time. It remains in this state for two to three weeks in all, until the butterfly described above emerges."_

—W.G. Sebald, _The Rings of Saturn_

**Chapter 1: Child of the Owl-Glass**

Another shudder passed through the stilts of the platform on which the house stood. Wood vibrated like a fiddle string under the bullying gust. Samhain held her breath and stilled her body. She entertained the notion that, maybe, if she kept still, the house would remain standing. Just a silly, superstitious thought. The house had survived many such storms at this time of year, as had all the other houses lining the bay. They were essentially identical – all built from the same timber, all structured the same way, all equally vulnerable and resilient to the elements. If any one of them did decide to collapse, there was not much anyone could do about it.

Pointless as it was, the action lent Samhain a little peace of mind until the wind calmed. She dared to only lift her hand and rest it on her ballooning abdomen to quell the kicking child. The unborn infant's restlessness mirrored the storm brewing outside. She smiled and wondered if he was fussing because of the weather, or because he was two weeks overdue. If the first, nothing could be done to abate the storm; if the second, it was his own fault. But she couldn't criticize him. He had warmth, food and protection in there. Who would willingly give that up for the real world?

Sadly, she needed him to give it up soon. Her skin sketched like a drum's head and, while she enjoyed running her fingers along the taut flesh, she feared her sides would wear thin and split. Her belly might simply explode with pregnancy, and that would not be a pretty mess to clean up. Alberich would definitely disapprove. He'd stumble through the door after yet another visit to the tavern, gape like the fish he caught, then toss up his hands before hurling himself into bed and moping over the world's determination to make him miserable. If she survived, Samhain would be left to deal with things herself.

The air quieted and the shaking wood finally settled. A caged breath escaped out a pair of dry pursed lips. Samhain stared at the distant horizon where clouds, dark and heavy like soaked sponges, lingered above the gray water and the crescent shoreline of their meager village. Despite the impending storm, she had rolled up the curtain and taken a seat by the window. On the very bench where she kept the spinning wheel, in fact, to let the brisk air splash across her flushed face while her hand turned the wheel with a tap. She'd spent most of today on her feet. It had been impossible to abstain from motion, what with both the doctor and Madame Holda, the village's apothecary and most experienced midwife, ordering her to keep indoors. Her water could break at any time. By stepping outside she ran the risk of bringing her child into the world on a waste-spattered street or a pungent dock. A shame they didn't live further inland – Samhain wouldn't have minded giving birth in a field of tall grass or among sheep and cattle serenely grazing nearby.

The restriction should have encouraged her body to rest. Instead it hankered for activity. She swept, dusted, and even knelt on the floor to scrub out a bloodstain from when she'd sliced open her hand from gutting her husband's catch. She moved across the room in a frenzied search for things to straighten, polish or put away. Feet ached from walking across the cold floorboards; they ached more when she sat down, missing the pressure of cold but familiar wood beneath them. Samhain's nerves tingled with so much frenetic energy that, in an attempt to relax, she spent half an hour fussing with her hair. Her fingers couldn't stop twining into the mousy-brown locks. They curled and tugged and raked through until her scalp burned. The fervor seemed to belong to another body—possessed by an invisible, insatiable lover. She finally wove it in a tangled, haphazard braid and got up to sweep the room again.

By early evening she had expended enough energy to sit quietly at the spinning wheel and breathe in the briny air rolling off the bay. Wisps of hair tickled her eyes and cheeks; she no longer had the strength to care. Her interest latched onto the growling skies and the enthusiastic movements of the incubated creature she carried. Maybe the storm was an omen—or an assurance—that today was the day. Which would break first, then? The storm or her water?

A laugh trickled out of her at the curious similarity. If Alberich were here and heard her thoughts, he might have regarded her with stunned offense. What woman in her right mind laughs at such an idea? The storm would unleash hellish fury on their tired town. The houses on the coastline could withstand rising water thanks to elevation, but if the waves lapped over the raised docks and the sea wall, no one would be safe. All this peril, and for what? It was not a prosperous settlement. Overfishing had all but depleted the bay's host of underwater inhabitants. That didn't stop Alberich from setting out at dawn each day and spending long hours in his old rowboat dipping the impotent hook into the water, begging nature to yield its fruit. Sometimes he seemed to take a perverse pleasure in his failure. Just as he took a perverse pleasure in chastising Samhain for her spinning and selling of yarn and thread, regardless of how badly they needed the money.

She turned in her seat and glanced at the basket next to the bed – woven from hazelnut, deep and long and sporting a high handle that joined the longer ends. It overflowed with her labors. She would have taken her wares to market sooner had Alberich not snagged her into another pointless row over it. He'd whined over their poverty and the cheating fishmongers who contributed to it; he'd griped, too, over the money she'd thrown away on wool and spun when those precious coppers could've been saved for something of actual value. "Like more mead?" Samhain had calmly asked. "Which would you prefer: to be _very_ poor, or just _plain_ poor with a wife who earns half the income?" That really set him off. But he was as impotent in a temper as he was in anything else. He grabbed the poker from the hearth and beat the straw-stuffed mattress while she stood by and watched—one hand on her abdomen, the other on her hip.

It wasn't his failure as a provider that frustrated her. She could handle failure the way anyone can handle stepping in horse dung in a careless moment. Anger and complaints don't change circumstances; it's best to accept it and with any luck learn from the mistake. One often doesn't, of course. Such is life. What rubbed Samhain's patience raw was Alberich's stubbornness. His blood flowed with the salt of his native bay. He was practically a fish himself in the self-punishing way he returned to the water, and then to the market where the dangling worm of profit lured him into the fishmongers' nets. He refused to consider alternate employments or move to another village. He didn't stay because it secretly made him happy; he lusted for riches as much as the next man, though without the fire of ambition to fuel any serious pursuit of wealth. He seemed to believe that this life, for all its hardships, was what he deserved, yet he still had the right to rail at it. Had Alberich ever gotten stuck in quicksand, he would've preferred to curse the world rather than contrive a means to climb out.

He protested in other ways besides griping and weeping. Samhain no longer went to the tavern to retrieve her melancholic spouse; it only caused a scene. She did consider making an exception tonight, if only to get out of the house (to the deuce with the doctor's orders). Then memories of the stench of bitter ale and sweaty bodies after a long day's work filled her mind and upended her insides. No, Alberich could come home at whatever blessed hour he desired. It didn't matter to her if she delivered the child tonight and he was still drowning himself in golden oblivion on the other side of town. He'd be useless. Madame Holda would give her all the support and guidance she needed when the time came.

With her index finger, Samhain traced a fragile line over the curve of her belly, delighting in how full she felt. Pregnancy inhibited mobility and would probably ruin her figure, but she didn't give those facts much thought. She cherished a greater truth, although it may have been just a notion bordering on fancy: she felt both very large and very small. Outside the sky churned and the water rumbled with terrible awesomeness; inside her abdomen she felt she was carrying an ocean, and within that ocean a leviathan whose undulations commanded the tides. What kind of soul lived inside the creature inside her, she wondered. Was the soul already formed, as the clerics proclaimed each week at their public services in the village square? Or did it exist in a state of multiple—maybe even endless—possibilities? A universe of potentialities yet to be realized. How immense, and yet how miniscule they both were in the face of nature and the heavens.

Samhain's head swam at the contradiction, and her mind started to float away, like it had unlocked a secret hatch out of reality's glass-walled prison and now wanted to escape. Gripped with sudden, inexplicable fear, she sucked in some air and hopped to her feet. Her limbs tingled and prickled from the motion. After giving her face a sobering rub, she walked to the kitchen to prepare dinner. Inactivity and solitude would drive her mad if she let them.

Five steps. That was all it took, after an entire day of movement. Five steps before a rush of heat and liquid erupted between her legs. Samhain heard the splash and looked down. A puddle lay between her calloused feet. She waited a few seconds, half-expecting the baby to slide out on its own. Then, feeling oddly calm and remarkably unchanged, she abandoned the kitchen for her room to fetch her outdoor garments. It crossed her mind as she dressed that Alberich might make some accidental effort to return home tonight. If she was still absent, he might throw a fit and go bang on doors demanding to know where his wife was. They owned no paper or quills, so she couldn't leave a note. Inspiration soon struck. Samhain waddled around the bed and, holding up her stomach, crouched and reached under to pull out a shallow basket. In it she stored an array of sentimental items that, while not valuable in the monetary sense, possessed sufficient importance to her. She rummaged through these items until her clever fingers found a pair of wool baby booties joined together by the laces. Smiling, she started to push herself up when she noticed something else. Her heartbeat quickened.

A bone-carved comb – the kind used to pin up a woman's hair – poked out of the chaotic pile. Or, rather, the swan's head that served as part of the spine of the comb poked out. Samhain plucked it up. It'd must have been a few years since she last laid eyes on it. Alberich had given it to her on their wedding day. The finest gift she'd ever received. Now she'd nearly forgotten it. She couldn't recall where he'd bought it, but she remembered the gratitude and glee she's felt as a young, still optimistic bride taking it from her husband's lightly blistered palms. It was evidence of a happier time. Not idyllic, since peasants could never hope for more than tolerable cohabitation and breaking even with rent and household expenses. Samhain couldn't in that moment remember when exactly things turned sour. Very likely a progression, like the way dirt builds in corners over time. In the beginning the specks don't seem that unsightly. After enough missed chances and neglect, though, the results can be staggering.

Samhain blamed the stinging in her eyes on the mood swings that came with pregnancy. She was a practical woman. Ironically, she was also a woman of impulse. With her arms braced against the bed, she elevated herself enough so her knees could lift her the rest of the way and her feet could find their center of gravity. She tucked the baby booties into her apron pocket and wrapped up the braid into a bun that she then pinned down with the swan comb. The remaining preparations followed. Her ankle-high boots were frayed around the front rim of the soles. Her toes poked out as though she were wearing sandals. Better than nothing. When a clap of thunder sounded overhead, she donned her cloak and pulled the hood over her head. She snatched up the blanket she'd knitted over the last few weeks from her spinning stool. Just after she stepped out the door, she took out the booties and tied the laces around the outside handle. If Alberich couldn't decipher their meaning, he might be lucid enough to understand the puddle she'd neglected to mop up. Probably not, though. He might presume the roof had a leak, instead.

The house shook one more time with Samhain's exit, as if in warning or protestation. She shook off the phenomenon. It would have been better if they had employed a neighbor or a street urchin to send word to Holda. Alberich was so despondent, though, and Samhain was regarded as a somewhat peculiar character in that town. She was an outsider with a different set of customs and notions, so they neither of them had any close friends to prevail upon. If Alberich did have friends, they were sharing a succession of drinks with him right now. Besides, even in the face of dangerous weather, Samhain was only too happy to finally go out and make the trek to the pharmacy herself. Her nerves were only rattled while walking along the wharf, since it stood exposed to the water and wind and nothing guarded her against their encroaching force. Once she reached the end of it, past other humble houses, and descended the creaky steps to the street, most of her anxiety dissipated. She even sighed with mild pleasure from the gusts that pawed at her skirts and showered her face with cool kisses. The rest of the walk still proved challenging with her girth, her tattered boots and the growing dread of her inevitable contractions. Other than that, she was in fairly good spirits. A few passers-by threw a glance her way but did nothing. She silently thanked them for their distance. She needed to allocate what energy she had to her legs and to girding herself for the pain to come.

Drops of rain began to patter on the dirt streets and thatched roofs. Pedestrians wrapped themselves up while dashing madly for shelter. Even if she wanted to, Samhain couldn't hasten her pace much more. That was fine. If she kept at a steady rate, she'd be across the village and at the threshold of Madame Holda's in little time. If only her cargo could exercise more patience. The weight within her turned in a frantic somersault. Tiny hands and feet pressed against the walls of the fleshy dungeon. Tightening her grip on her skirts, she made an effort to quicken her stride just a little. A flash of lightning and more thunder applauded her decision.

Her route through the alleys that separated the rows of huts and hovels remained clear until she reached the main street, which would take her straight to the pharmacy. Before she could round the corner, a gaggle of mumbled chants accented by the dampened ring of a gong met Samhain's ears. She gasped and stepped back into the alley. The action might have been a little puerile; she didn't care. She remained in the protective shadow of a low house to observe the approaching clerics.

Seeing the brown robes brought her some ease. They were novices, compelled by piety and an elder to tread through the rain. The elder, a fat fellow with a crimson robe that pinched him in the middle and under the arms, set the tempo with his little gong. The dull thud of the mallet against the wooden dish depressed her more than the droning of the walkers. She had nothing to fear from them; she wasn't a whore caught in the light of day—well, what little light the storm allowed. She was married, albeit to a wet blanket. Alberich still legally qualified as a man and as her husband. No one who knew her gave her pregnant state a second look. But the clerics set everyone on edge. It was wiser to keep out of their way, even if they were just novices.

Samhain quieted her breath and leaned against the wall of the hut. It was the last abode on the main street before the buildings became more commercial. She thought her location wouldn't draw much notice. Indeed, the novices shuffled with their heads bowed in meditation and prayer. The elder trained his gaze on his herd. They cared more about keeping their hoods draped over their heads and stopping their robes from flapping scandalously in the gale. Their modesty better suited a troupe of shy maidens. The rain intensified. Samhain tugged at her cloak and silently ordered the group to hurry along. They entered her sights and trudged along the muddy road, ever at a snail's pace, until she could see the back of the elder's sweat-stained cowl. Before she could take off in the opposite direction, a loud rattling of metal befell them. The clerics whirled around. Samhain ducked into the alley again with an exasperated groan. After a moment she peeked around the bend.

A wagon-like vehicle, set on four large iron wheels, rolled down the street toward the clerics. The sight stole Samhain's breath because, among other reasons, no animals were pulling it. Somehow it moved forward of its own accord, or perhaps at the command of the bag-eyed dwarf who sat in its front end. His small hands worked the levers with practiced movements. His head was covered with a blue cap that sported a golden tassel. The dwarf arrested his deadened stare on the road. The machine bounced around him over the ruts made by other wheeled transport. The only clues as to the source of the vehicle's locomotion were the pipes and funnels that extended from the sides and reached upward like smoke stacks. They expelled streams of gray-blue clouds that made the air taste of ashes.

More remarkable than its self-generated motion was the shape. The dwarf sat on a high, leather-covered seat overshadowed by the neck of a giant mechanical goat. Its forelegs, bent at the knees, straddled the driver; the massive hooves partly concealed the front wheels. While the wagon moved, the goat's horned head wagged with chillingly lifelike animation. Even its mouth imitated the manner in which real goats chew their food. Samhain could vaguely discern the outline of the separate, interlocking plates underneath the hairy covering. The horns – two lengths of naked, twisted steel – spiraled up and curved out and in in the silhouette of a woman's hips. The eyes must have been cut from red quartz, and a candle must have been placed behind each socket—how else could she explain the unholy scarlet glow they emitted even in the ensuing downpour?

As the wagon drew closer, Samhain trailed her eyes along the body and encountered another surprise. The lower half of the mechanical beast did not belong to a goat. A fish tail emerged from the white hairs of its middle and curved over the goat's back like a scorpion tail. The fluke flapped with the wagon's jolts. While it didn't appear to be covered in fabric like the goat, the realistic sheen of the scales was too believable to be the work of ironsmiths alone. Perhaps a special paint had been slathered on to make it shimmer like that. Its sections also fit more tightly together than those of the goat. Samhain briefly fantasized about the wagon descending into water and, fishtail lowered, swimming off toward the boundless horizon, bleating mockingly at the sad land-bound folk.

The sight enchanted her into nearly forgetting both the clerics and the purpose of her outing. A sudden punch from inside came very close to provoking a shocked yelp. Samhain bit her tongue and crushed her lips together. Still no contractions, but it wouldn't be long. Her mind and feet agreed to stay in place for just a little while more. She needed to know the reason for the mechanical wagon's presence. The people who drove them – a scarce and queer menagerie of individuals, usually non-humans who barely qualified as citizens in the kingdoms – showed off such technological oddities to win attention and coins from a simple-minded audience. Samhain didn't count herself as simple-minded, but that didn't prevent her from being fascinated by the spectacular contraption. She would have gladly continued enjoying its mere existence even if it hadn't crept up behind the drenched clerics. They too heard the commotion and halted their march to confront it. The novices trembled at the artificial beast and its master and huddled close to one another. The elder, by all indications the more worldly man of faith, pointed his mallet at the dwarf. Samhain spied the coat of sweat on the man's chubby face.

"Behold, brothers! Here is yet another dark force of this world. You quake in the face of this monstrosity because it has no place in the Kingdom of Light! It is an unnatural thing, born of hubris and ungodly schemes. But you shall not intimidate us! You and your grotesque creation will not interfere with our holy quest!"

"Get outta the way," grumbled the dwarf. "Can't you see it's rainin'? This needs to get stored by the docks before the coverings get ruined."

"Let the abomination rust!" The elder hollered his address directly at his novices now, calling them to arms with flailing hands. He might have been more impressive had he tossed aside the gong and mallet. Instead he looked like a raving band player who couldn't find his music troupe. "Brothers, stand firm! Here is temptation! Here is the stain of the black world coming to cast our hamlet into darkness."

"Oy, you wanna get run over?" The dwarf had brought the wagon to a halt. Water pounded against the metal and fur and Samhain felt sorry that it should all be soiled by the ignorant stubbornness of the fanatics. If the fanatics hadn't become such a powerful entity in the village, she might have tried to intervene. "I got a job to do. Get outta the way if you don't want to be crushed."

"_You see?_" roared the elder. Samhain heard murmurs behind closed windows. No one came out, but she didn't doubt people were listening. "You see what they do? They wish to _crush_ us! Magic wielders are the true blasphemers, but worshippers of the fire and hammer—the forgers of nightmarish machines that will rob you all of your purity—see people as vermin to be exterminated! Or as children to be tricked and exploited!" With that the elder whipped back round and roared (with a touch of wheezing), "Begone, before I call upon my fellow Soldiers of Truth to eradicate your poisonous presence! Leave and take your foul metal creature with you!"

Leaning back in his seat, the dwarf scratched his gray beard and snickered. "Yeah? I'd like to see that. But I'm thinkin' your 'brothers' would rather stay inside and worry about 'eradicating' me after the rain lets up. I suggest you do the same. Outta the way, now!"

The elder tried to release another warding tirade. He didn't even get a full sentence out before the mechanical wagon thrust into full throttle and hurtled down at the clerics. The novices screamed and scattered. They threw themselves into the gutter along the street where a river of waste, now a little diluted by the rain, caught them. The elder waited till the very last moment to leap away in the opposite direction towards Samhain's feet. His ungainly frame shortened the length of the leap and prevented his legs from meeting the ground. He slammed onto the earth and rolled over. Mud clung to his robes and stained them as brown as the garments of his disciples.

The goat's head reared from the wagon's acceleration. Grinning, the dwarf picked up a funnel next to him and mimicked a real goat's bleat. It came out the false, oversized goat's mouth. The beast laughed at the clerics while rolling down the road, then took a sharp right before disappearing from view. The sound could still be heard for a full minute after. As it grew fainter, the bleating laugh continuously heightened in pitch.

It hadn't crossed Samhain's mind that, with all the commotion and terror left in the wake of the machine, anyone would give a care for her presence. The elder did, unfortunately. He stumbled to his feet and started scraping the mud on his clothes while she observed everything with a grin. An explosive "_You!_" frightened her more than any thunderclap. She jumped and tried to flee down the street toward the pharmacy. The cleric elder, quicker than she expected, had her by the wrist before she could escape.

"You were there the entire time, weren't you? Have you no shame? Where is your courage? Where is your sense of duty? I can see you have no conscience!" His fat hand tightened around her so hard Samhain truly feared he might fracture the bone.

"Please," she protested in a controlled tone, "I must see Madame Holda. My baby—"

"Aha! You're going to see the witch, are you?" The elder hauled her towards him and allowed her a view of his heated glower. Squinting dark eyes flickered with radical fire. They scorched her, and neither the rain nor the wind could douse the heat. "That fiend cannot be trusted. But you may already be a fiend, too. Do not go to her. If your baby is about to enter this life, let us deliver it and shield it. Have the child blessed by the bishop. Unless you've already damned it by entangling yourself with a witch."

Samhain held onto her nerves as stubbornly as the cleric held onto her arm. She feared him, but she feared letting herself be taken into his power or the power of his superiors even more. They might have meant well in trying to purify the souls of the villagers. Their methods, however, inspired more terror than a conquering army. She seized the hand that restrained her and grunted trying to pry him off. "Let me be! My baby is coming. Madame Holda is a good woman, and she and the doctor told me to go to her when the time came."

"You cannot trust any of them! Apothecaries, doctors. They're all agents of darkness. They're charlatans bent on manipulating you. They have no faith in the Higher Powers. The gods will protect your child so long as you are in our care." The cleric grabbed at her other hand to fully capture her. "Stop struggling. Come!"

She didn't care how it made her look, or that it could provoke the cleric to violence. Samhain shrieked bloody murder. The rain and thunder obscured her cries. Nevertheless, it did the trick. The cleric released her right wrist and clamped his hand over her mouth. She caught the offending hand and, holding it so he couldn't withdraw, bit him between the thumb and forefinger. His scream was no more successful in cutting through the storm. Samhain wrenched her left hand away and, scooping up her skirts, fled down the street without worrying about any fellow townsfolk coming to the zealot's aid.

Her speed amazed her. Panic and adrenaline did wonders to the body. It came with a price, though. The weight of her child returned tenfold once she reached the front door of Madame Holda's pharmacy, _The Owl-Glass_. Her muscles started aching and her lungs begged for air. If her body was giving out under this fleeting strain now, she dreaded how she would fair during labor. Gasping, she pounded her fist on the door. A glance down the street assured her that the cleric, a retreating reddish-brown lump, had given up. Left her to damnation, it seemed. She sighed and knocked again. The cloak stuck to her arms and back, and the water seeped through to her blouse. Her boots squished with water when she stamped them to keep warm. The mud snuck between her toes. It was grainy like sand. For some reason Samhain didn't mind it half so much as that cleric's vicious grasp and the thought of being surrounded by hooded men who chanted prayers she half-understood while her body writhed with birth pangs.

A shivering hand lifted to knock again. Before it met wood, the door swung back. A wiry woman with shoulder-length, wavy silver hair stood in its place. She was well layered in grays and greens. The tawny skin of her face folded into deep wrinkles that accentuated the sharp contours of her cheekbones, nose and chin. Despite her reed-thin figure, she filled the doorway with her presence. Or maybe the entrance was just narrow.

"Well, well," the old woman chirped. "Looking ripe and drenched, dear. You should've worn something with animal skin in this maelstrom. How far along are you?"

Samhain took the greeting and inquiry as an invitation. Even if Madame Holda made her almost as nervous as the clerics did, she trusted her more. The woman cared for the villagers for a living. Daring to be rude, Samhain stepped onto the threshold under the awning that sported the gold-painted letters of the pharmacy's name. "My water broke about half an hour ago. No contractions yet."

"Excellent." Madame Holda chuckled while pulling back Samhain's soaked hood and undoing the clasp of her cloak. As her fingers worked, she turned her head and yelled toward the back of the shop. "_Ursa!_ Samhain is here, as I told you she would be!"

A minute passed before a tall, voluptuous woman barely out of adolescence staggered in from behind a curtain woven from coarse wool. In her haste she nearly toppled a shelf of glass vials, flasks and bottles smacked with labels and filled with mostly clear, colorless liquids. It was just one of many shelves that filled the shop, all arranged in categories and managing to look chaotically cluttered at the same time. Quarters were tight due to both the size of the room and how many elixirs, drafts and potions could occupy it. Samhain had visited a handful of times in her life, and it never seemed any easier to navigate. The tall shelves cut down the dispersion of natural light. Not that there was much to be had today. Madame Holda slipped the sopping cloak off Samhain in time for a gust to rattle the building and everything within. Glass tinkled and hopped. Shelves groaned and sent Samhain's heart at a frantic pace. She also felt her body, particularly between her thighs, enter into the first wave of agony, and she thoughtlessly squeezed Madame Holda's hand. Tall and awkward Ursa joined them.

"And so it begins," said Madame Holda, patting Samhain on the back. "All right, dearie, just breathe. That's right, deep and steady. Ursa will get the bed ready in the back, unless you think you can make it upstairs to our quarters. I have a cot down here already just in case."

Stairs suddenly seemed an impossible obstacle. Samhain didn't know how to feel about giving birth in the back of an apothecary's shop, but now that she was indoors and starting to convulse in preparation for the new life yearning to escape her womb, nothing else occupied her thoughts but settling into the closest bed and getting it over with.

The backroom was a stunning discovery. Few people had the privilege (or permission) to glimpse past the curtain into Madame Holda's storeroom of books and brewing equipment. Samhain couldn't tell if it was actually more spacious than the front of the pharmacy, or if it was simply an illusion of the furniture arrangement, and the fact Madame Holda had cubby holes to store and conceal her materials. Unliuke the front, the back room had a homey ambiance; space had been made to accommodate movement and rest for the apothecary and, judging by how easily Ursa retrieved the smelling salts and herbs from the cavernous cabinets, her daughter and possible apprentice. She could imagine the pair bustling about in the early morning hours cooking concoctions at the long table with funnels, bulbous vials, dripping nozzles, dishes and bowls, and a huge magnifying glass with which to examine their handiwork. It fascinated and frightened Samhain with all its mystery.

Something else in the backroom frightened her more.

The women led her to the bed, then helped her walk around when her contractions ebbed and she needed to gain a sense of what position felt most comfortable. A little pacing also gave Ursa time to finish making the bed. It still needed an extra bottom sheet to preserve the mattress from stains, as well as a surplus of blankets and pillows. Seeing Ursa did not trouble Samhain, but it did remind her of the stories she'd picked up around the village regarding the two of them. Madame Holda had lived there for as long as anyone in their prime could remember. She was old, but her stony determination and graceful guidance in leading Samhain and letting her lean on her belied her years. Sometimes called Mother Holda by those more intimately acquainted with her—or just particularly grateful for her help—she possessed an almost timeless quality. Samhain doubted any natural ailment could touch her. Her wrinkles added character, not age, to her visage. Her twinkling eyes and quick grins left the young woman wondering if the old lady was in on some cosmic joke no one else knew.

Yet Madame Holda must have been human all the same. She had married, or so people said, which seemed proper considering the existence of her grown daughter. A few people muttered that her husband had run off when he learned she really was a witch. Others claimed she'd turned him into a turtle or toad for nosiness or infidelity. Then there were a few individuals (maybe more believed it but kept quiet) who said that the lovely if not ungainly Ursa was actually Madame Holda's husband, enchanted for some unforgivable deed and forced to not only be a woman, but a maiden subjected to Madame Holda's will and the interest of men who loitered around the pharmacy or stopped by for remedies or advice. Men didn't like coming into _The Owl-Glass _for some reason, though, so Ursa bore the brunt of attention only when she stepped outside. Madame Holda never intervened; that neither confirmed nor denied the outrageous rumor. But they were only rumors, and Samhain would not subscribe to or investigate them now. Her only concern was whether Madame Holda did resort to some form of witchcraft in her work. It hardly mattered except that the cleric's words remained fresh in her ears. Yet even that question became moot. Not a single child had perished under Mother Holda's direct care, thanks to impeccable skills or well-concealed sorcery. Perhaps both. Either way, the child's health came first. If Madame Holda could guarantee the infant's survival, who was she to question the old woman's methods?

Such thoughts passed like shadows across the surface of Samhain's mind as she lumbered about and breathed through her contractions. None of her musings disturbed her as much as the strange object that occupied a large portion of the back wall. A three-piece mirror shaped like an enormous owl seemed to flap its wings at her every time she crossed the room and glanced at it. The wing-like panels of glass were attached to the middle mirror on hinges. Had they been flush against the wall like the owl's body, the entire thing would've matched the length of Alberich's rowboat.

"Admiring my owl-glass, I see," said Madame Holda, grinning. She gripped Samhain's arm like an iron manacle. "It has quite a history. An old piece from my grandparents. I like having it back here while I work. I find it helps me think, and it keeps me company when Ursa is elsewhere."

A question perched on Samhain's tongue, but a surge of pain cut her off. She cried out and leaned into the apothecary. It wasn't only her birth canal that felt like it was tearing in two. The baby just might split her body in half, from crotch to sternum.

"Time for the herbs!" Madame Holda exclaimed all too cheerily. Ursa reappeared from somewhere with a bowl of crushed leaves and seeds. Her mother took a candle from the table and touched the flame to the powder, producing a burning, pungent vapor. It smelled of wood smoke and cinnamon and caused Samhain to sneeze when Madame Holda made her inhale it. Then a cloudy haze of lightness invaded her skull. It tingled like duck feathers against her skin, and travelled down her arms and chest and pooled into the most agonized areas. Her knees wobbled. Madame Holda and Ursa each clutched a shoulder and elbow and propelled her to the bed. Samhain dumbly obeyed orders to arrange her hips on the pillow near the foot of the mattress and prop her legs up and apart for complete access to her genitals. Ursa leaned her back onto the hill of blankets and pillows and, after she settled and relaxed, mopped her forehead with a wet rag.

The drug's fumes blurred her senses for what felt like mere minutes. When her mind grew more lucid, however, Samhain thought the room looked darker than before, as if the day had turned to night. She still felt the contractions, and now more frequently, but the pain was bearable.

"How long has it been?" she mumbled. Her mouth tasted so dry it shocked her. She lamented hearing the rain on the roof. "Could I have some water?"

Madame Holda sat on a low stool at her feet, massaging the soles like they were made of dough. "Almost two hours now. You're doing splendid, dearie. Ursa, fetch the fisherman's wife some water. What with this weather, you could just stick a cup out the window and wait a few minutes!"

The idea would've appealed to Samhain had a crack of thunder not erupted overhead. She gasped from the clamor, then again when she felt the baby kick and twist around inside. Madame Holda stood and placed a hand on her abdomen while Samhain leaned back on the pillows to groan.

"He's frightened," the hoary midwife mused. Her declaration did not correlate with the thoughtful look etched in her face. She seemed to be considering something. Nothing urgent, given the gentle touch of her fingers and the lazy tilt of her head.

Samhain stared up at her with watering eyes. Her tongue itched with thirst and refused to form words. Thankfully Madame Holda turned her golden-brown eyes to her face. "No need to fret. Children ought to be frightened. When they are, they tend to run _to_ you rather than _away_ from you." She patted the skin below Samhain's navel. "He'll be a good son."

It was just the storm, she told herself. _She _was frightened, even though there were no trees to fall down on them. The building stood as tall as its neighbors, so there was no reason to fear that lightning would strike it. Who could really say, though? And what could be done? There was nothing to do but dig one's fingernails into the sheets and endure it. Such helplessness made Samhain sick. She grabbed the cup of water a little too forcefully from Ursa before greedily gulping it down. It was no use caring.

"A thirsty fish!" The old woman cackled. "Not surprising. After a while you become your occupation. Or your husband's occupation."

A quick headshake. "I'm a spinner."

"Oh, that's right. A woman earning her own living. But your house must still reek with dead fish morning, noon and night."

Madame Holda returned to the stool. Instead of rubbing Samhain's sole in earnest like before, she grazed her fingertips over the top of her foot. The tickling sensation normally would have made Samhain kick her tormentor. Instead she found it soothing. It balanced out the pain stabbing her from within. She pushed her pelvis forward while keeping her feet planted on the short bedposts, hoping to relieve some pressure and not disturb Madame Holda's massage.

With a dry chuckle she said, "Always. I can't stand it."

"That'll never do, dearie. Can't stay in a place you can't stand. If it's so unbearable, you have to take things into your own hands." Suddenly the old woman's palms were on her heel and the balls of her foot, and she rolled and bent the foot back so the ankle cracked. At the same time another contraction rolled through Samhain's tired frame. She stilled her leg as much as possible. She clawed into the sheets and mattress and held on for dear life. When she growled through her teeth, she saw Madame Holda nod.

"That's right. Don't hold it in. No one's going to hear you in this storm, anyway."

From then on Samhain didn't restrain her cries. They didn't bother Madame Holda or Ursa, who kept herself busy fetching odd items her mother needed, like oils to rub around Samhain's opening to facilitate the birth. Her body clenched and expanded relentlessly. Tears navigated like wayward ships off the edges of her face, as though they had reached and toppled over the ends of the earth. Above her the belligerent sky raged on. The house's body groaned from the wind. Water started dripping between the planks in the ceiling. Madame Holda called for buckets, which Ursa promptly retrieved, and paid the leaks no more mind.

Now and then Samhain couldn't resist turning her head toward the strange mirror. Looking at it sent shivers everywhere in her already quivering flesh, but the mystery of its purpose held her interest captive. In truth, it was a useless mirror. There was hardly a flat surface in which a person could examine her reflection. Two concave domes, as large as a human head, served at the owl's eyes. Every image reflected in them shrunk and became distorted. The object or person appeared to be sucked into a vacuum. Convex domes the size of apples dotted the owl's belly, which was otherwise warped into indentations made to resemble feathers. The same design had been applied to the wings, only more extensively. A glass beak reached out from beneath the eyes. The dimensional contrast between the eyes and beak almost endowed the owl-mirror a lifelike resemblance. Once, while Samhain stared at it, the house rattled and the wings shook a little, as though the huge bird were about to fly off. She gasped and twisted her head away, then blushed at her nervous state. A throaty chuckle from Madame Holda deepened the hue of her cheeks.

She didn't ask how many more minutes or hours passed. Time had become irrelevant. It was more important to cling to the moment and wait for the long anticipated sign of deliverance. At last Madame Holda scooted between her legs and said, "It's time, dearie. You're open good and wide. Give us a push."

A new kind of pain roared through her like a wildfire. Samhain pushed on all the same and unleashed her screams. She worked muscles she didn't know she had for as long as she could endure, and then stopped to rest and pant. Ursa still flitted about behind her mother carrying things, but she lingered more than before to watch her mother and occasionally meet Samhain's eye. She didn't like it when their eyes locked. There was something distant and foreign in the girl's gaze. The details of the distasteful rumor about her came unbidden to Samhain's thoughts and made her grimace out of more than physical discomfort. Ursa did not appear to know the difference, for she continued with her duties without any sign of confusion or offense.

Another whipping crack from above sounded as Samhain pushed again. A light shower suddenly splashed onto her face and neck, and she could not have been more grateful, even if it did interrupt her attentive breathing.

Madame Holda could have been more pleased. She grunted harshly. "This won't do. Ursa, more buckets! Then get over here and help me move her. We'll be lucky if the baby's born before we're flooded."

In the end Ursa came to help her mother move Samhain first, then positioned some buckets where her body had been to save the linens. "It's still dry here," the elderly midwife said, pointing toward the space just in front of the owl-mirror.

Samhain's stomach would've dropped to her feet had her inflated uterus not been pressing it up. "N-no. I'd rather not—"

"Oh, dearie, my owl doesn't bite!" Madame Holda laughed like a crow and set her stool down in front of the mirror. "Sit here. We'll do this the old fashioned way. There was a time when midwives claimed that birthing a baby on a stool was more practical. Before that, you had to do it standing up! We'll catch it, my dear, never fear!"

Attempts at further arguments fled in the face of the encroaching rain and Madame's Holda's persuasive hands. Samhain turned away from the mirror to sit. From this position she could ignore the looming bird and see the rest of the room, now taken up by a coalition of buckets. Drops clinked against their metal bottoms. The sound sent a tingle just beneath Samhain's clit. At the same time the walls of her vagina stretched with newfound elasticity. A startled cry escaped her. She wasn't entirely sure if she was in pain or just surprised. Either way, the sensation rippling through persuaded her to remain on the stool and sit as far forward as possible.

"Nearly there," cooed Madame Holda. She placed a hand on Samhain's back and held her hand. "Give us a good squeeze now. Mind if I tell you about my owl?"

"_Mother_," rejoined Ursa. Her voice was as rough as the bark of a pine tree, and as deep as a bear's growl. She mimicked Madame Holda's actions on the opposite side. Samhain couldn't believe how much higher and more nasal her mother's voice was in comparison. But they shared the same scratchy timbre.

"Oh, hush. It will help her concentrate." The apothecary smiled and squeezed Samhain's hand again. "As I said before, it was my grandparents'. My grandfather was a glassblower, and they both had a mischievous sense of humor. There'd been a man living in their village who liked to belittle my grandfather's skill. He was a scholar, one of those educated types who didn't have a single intelligent thought in his head. My grandfather had no _proper_ education, but he loved to gloat about his wares and his talents. One day the old gentleman looks down his long nose at my grandfather, smirks and says, 'If you are so skillful, make me a mirror that truly reflects the world.'"

The wind closed in around the pharmacy like a giant gauntlet. Madame Holda interrupted her tale to tell Samhain to push again. She did. The muscles of her core throbbed. She could barely breathe from the effort and pain.

"So my grandfather talks it over with my grandmother. How do you make a mirror that truly reflects the world? That's what mirrors do, don't they? But then they realize something. Mirrors really _don't_ show the world for what it is. They only show the surface of things. So my grandfather crafts this mirror. When the old gentleman sees it, he laughs and declares, 'Your mirror is horrible. I can't see anything in it. And why an owl? How does it reflect the world as it really is?' My grandfather says—"

On instinct, Samhain pushed again. She pushed, but nothing seemed to be moving forward. "Oh, gods!" she cried after she could no longer make her muscles obey.

Madame Holda knelt on the floor and peeked between her sweating thighs. "Damn. It's breeched."

Confused terror helped Samhain recover her voice. "What? What does that mean?"

"Means it's facing the wrong way, that's what. The baby's coming out rump-first." Madame Holda sat back to see both Samhain's and Ursa's faces. She combed a wrinkled hand through her tangled hair before sighing. "Ursa, the tongs. I'll wrench the little beast out of you if I have to. But keep pushing."

For the first time that day, Samhain experienced a true wave of panic. The pain had been one thing; the possibility that her child wouldn't make it hadn't even crossed her mind. What did it mean that her child was coming into the world bottom-first? Was he not getting enough air? Would he suffocate? Could she not stretch enough to get him out?

How did Madame Holda know her baby would be a boy?

Questions did nothing to change the situation, so Samhain discarded them and did as the apothecary ordered. When Ursa returned with the tongs and handed them to Madame Holda, she came back to Samhain's side and bathed her face with a refreshed rag. Her skin bled heat and perspiration, and the cold water on the cloth only briefly soothed it. In fact, Samhain was sure her body was doing more to heat the rag than the rag did to chill her down. All the same she hungrily leaned into every touch. She wished she could drink the water through her skin.

Her body was ready to squeeze and push the baby out again just as Ursa's hand dipped to her chest to wipe off the sheen of sweat. Samhain's heart skipped as the girl's hand caught on the thin leather string around her neck and pulled up the pendant she'd tucked into her blouse. It clinked against her collarbone. Such an inconsequential sound, but it was enough to make Madame Holda glance up. Suddenly the breeched infant dwindled in significance. "What's that, there?"

With a gasp Samhain seized the pendant. The metal started to warm in her moist palm. Now in her protective grasp, she ran her thumb along the mostly smooth, concave underside and the two foreign characters imprinted into the surface. The front of the pendant had straight carved lines that radiated from the middle. Two indented circles connected the lines together; one in the center, the other halfway between the first circle and the ornament's edges. Samhain had never decided whether the design was supposed to resemble a wheel or the sun.

"Nothing," she muttered between pants. "How's the baby?"

"Push again," said Madame Holda in a guttural tone, her eyes nowhere near Samhain's nether regions. "What's it made of? Looks like gold."

"It isn't." Samhain hid the necklace inside her blouse again. She had good reason to do so, as both Madame Holda's and Ursa's intrigued stares proved. The pendant, if Samhain remembered correctly, had maybe a trace amount of gold, but was mostly forged from bronze, copper and some other common metals. It glimmered brilliantly, though, and in a village as poor as theirs, people turned into magpies when they laid eyes on anything shiny and potentially valuable. The pendant was a lid that had broken off a strange device with a strange name that in this moment of agony and thirst eluded her. Instead of an explanation, Samhain gave Madame Holda a partly beseeching, partly threatening expression.

The corner of the apothecary's mouth spasmed up into a smirk before she nodded. "Another push, dearie."

Samhain did while leaning back into Ursa, who had since abandoned the wet cloth to support her. She grabbed the edge of the stool with one hand and Ursa's wrist with the other and unleashed a bodily cry that unlocked an extra store of strength. Her womanly muscles shuddered and pushed like a group of laborers moving an enormous stone block. For a fleeting moment the tongs in Madame Holda's hands came into her sights. She shut her eyes and shut out the image as best she could, and pushed again. After each cry, she took several quick breaths to combat the dizziness. Relief was nowhere in sight until the cold clamps slipped inside her vaginal walls and Madame Holda started grunting. A minute later the mass of flesh and blood moved again, as did the pressure inside her birth canal. It was the home stretch of this murderous marathon. Samhain clenched again and shoved the little body from behind (or the head, rather) while Madame Holda yanked from the front (or rather the behind). Inch by inch it came into the world, reluctant to the bitter end.

When Samhain screamed again like a blood-crazed warrior, her voice harmonized with another. Smaller, higher, shriller. The tearing and pressing and burning ceased. Samhain collapsed into Ursa's arms and gasped like a dying fish. Dried tears had left crusty trails on her face. Foul bodily odors filled the air. None of it mattered. She was glad to be free of pain and able to breathe properly. It was done. She didn't even mind when Madame Holda summoned Ursa to fetch the scissors, leaving Samhain to support herself on the stool. Arms quaked, drained of blood and energy, so she sat forward a bit more to not rely on her tired limbs. She shook with exhaustion and relief and was nearly on the verge of crying again, only now with a smile on her face.

Then she looked down and saw that Madame Holda had cut the fleshy cord, the last physical anchor to the infant, and had wrapped the child in her apron, as if hiding it from Samhain's view. The air stilled in her lungs at the sight of the midwife's expression. Her grizzled brows pushed together, her mouth bent in a ponderous frown, and her dark eyes kept roaming over the bundle in her arms. Ursa sat to her mother's left and wore a much more open look. Her eyes rounded so much Samhain could see the whites without trying. Her lush lips parted into a soundless cry of shock.

"What is it?" she wheezed. "Is something wrong?"

Both women looked up, their expressions unchanged. Samhain started, then reached out to Madame Holda's lap. "Please, let me see. I can handle it."

She didn't know if that was true. Nevertheless, Samhain would not have any secrets kept from her. The child was hers; it was her right to know what had gone wrong. At least it wasn't stillborn; that much she was assured of by the cries and the wriggling inside the stained apron.

Madame Holda didn't move. "Well . . . he's got all his extremities in the right places. In fact he's in right-old shape. But . . . well, just try to stay calm, dearie."

A nod, and the child, still swaddled in Madame Holda's apron, was in Samhain's hands. She pulled back the white cloth. Instantly a sharp wail stabbed her eardrums, followed by quieter but still unpleasant whimpers and whines that were too high-pitched for a normal babe. So she told herself, but even that fact paled into inconsequence on actually looking at the babe.

In the room's poor light, she couldn't tell at first the color of the skin. It was not the hue but the glittering scales that seized her attention. At a touch her hand withdrew right away; the skin still had the softness and the usual folds and mounds of fat expected of babies, yet it was coated in a rough, flaky layer that felt like a continuous scab. Samhain was afraid to scratch at it, should it make the infant bleed by accident.

When her eyes adjusted, she realized that there was indeed something off about his complexion. Not exactly green, nor gray, nor bronze nor gold, but some amalgam of them all. The tips of his fingers were guarded by dark nails already tough enough to claw into her skin when she grazed his palm with her thumb. He grabbed her, his whines turning into eerie coos. Samhain wanted to tear her finger away. When she tried, though, the baby's grip tightened. The strength of his newly formed hand set her heart racing even faster.

And then the eyes. Dear gods, was what wrong with them? Most children's eyes are a little too big for their heads when they are born; the scaly baby's orbs were as big as coppers, and the irises swallowed up the whites. Their green-brown color was offset by grey streaks that radiated from the pupil, making them even more unnatural. The only genetic connection between this thing and her, from what Samhain could tell, was the wisps of light brown hair on his bulbous head.

Her breath grew thin and shallow. Panic strangled her. Her hands numbed, threatening to drop the infant. Samhain lifted her gaze to Madame Holda and Ursa in a desperate search for answers and reassurance. Ursa shared her terror with gaping mouth and trembling shoulders. Madame Holda merely raised her eyebrows.

"Can't say I'm all that surprised," she said after a spell of silence, disturbed only by the heavy thrumming of rain.

Samhain couldn't even form words. She just scoffed.

The apothecary shrugged. "What else can you say? You've given birth to a fish. One way or the other, you become what you consume."

"That's hardly helpful," Ursa growled. "What do we do with it?"

"Up to the customer, dearest." And so mahogany eyes locked on Samhain. "What will it be? No one would know. We're the souls of discretion."

Words floated through Samhain's mind like shriveled leaves on a river, none of which had sunk yet. She'd just fought her way through labor; now they were discussing throwing away the fruit of that battle. Yet for a child, or a _person_, to go through life looking like this—she couldn't begin to imagine what that would be like, nor what it would be like as a parent to withstand the looks and the whispers for the child's sake. She could ignore only so much gossip; everyone has their limit. Scenarios of such a life, gloomy visions of admittedly questionable verisimilitude, danced through her brain and pricked her skin with cold needles of fear. Her hands numbed enough that the baby started to roll out of them toward the floor.

"Ho, there!" Thin, sinewy arms shot out and caught the tumbling infant. Samhain jumped in her seat. She awakened from her thoughts to Madame Holda cradling her baby and aiming a pointed glare at her. "Pull yourself together, child. We'll get rid of it if you want, but think it through. Yes, people will make him an outcast, either the feared monster or the butt of many jokes. He'll need resilience to loneliness and a sharp sense of humor. He'll probably be the most interesting person you'll ever meet. That's not to say he won't suffer. He will. But everyone does. The tragedy of life that binds us all. Still, it's up to you. But don't be hasty, dearie. Deciding a child's fate is a great and terrible power."

The infant started crying again. There was a ring in his yell that resurrected the memory of the mechanical goat-fish, or fish-goat, Samhain had seen when daylight still graced the world and the rain didn't beat down so loudly. A quiet rumble of thunder failed to deter the shrieks.

"Little beast's hungry," said Madame Holda with unexpected affection. Swiftly wiping her hand with a cleaner portion of the apron, she slid her forefinger into his mouth to pacify him. Buggish eyes rolled up toward the apothecary's face and smiled. Then his jaws clamped together. Madame Holda yelped and ripped out her finger. All three women observed the deep bite along the knuckle and a thread of blood, mixed with thick saliva, dribbling down her finger. Ursa leapt up for a bandage without being asked, though she pressed her mother in a shaking, punctuated tone if she was all right.

"Little beast bit me!" declared the apothecary while staring at her wound in wonder. She did not bother to wait for her finger to be swathed. Her hand grabbed the infant's chin and squeezed his mouth open. She barked with laughter. "Teeth! This little fish is a shark! Look at those nasty things! Well, so much for breastfeeding. I'll help you work around that. To think, though, that he's tasted blood before milk!"

The incident left Ursa scowling at the creature and Samhain sitting dumbfounded and woozy for many more minutes. But the apothecary snickered and flicked his nose with her bandaged digit. The baby shrieked but did not cry anymore.

It became clear with the passing of the storm and the increasing weariness of the women that night had in fact come. Madame Holda returned the child to Samhain's arms and with Ursa hauled the bed over to the owl-glass. Samhain put up no more resistance to facing the object again while she lay down, propped up by pillows and accompanied by her sleeping son. He was now full with one of the apothecary's formulas specially concocted for newborns who couldn't be breastfed. She'd been instructed on what to do to relieve the pressure from milk in her breasts, and was even given a demonstration so she could rest comfortably. Tired as she was, Samhain couldn't sleep. From time to time she wondered what became of Alberich. Did he try to return to the house in the storm? Was he still guzzling or snoring at the tavern, just as she was lying awake away from home with people she barely knew? Did he even care how she was?

He'd been a bit more tender, a little more considerate in bygone days. But he'd never been truly gentle or loving. Samhain hadn't expected it when they married—her parents had propelled her into finding a husband for security, and at the time Alberich appeared to be a content enough soul and infatuated enough with her that she thought she could make a marriage with him work. A childish part of her wished she could turn back the clock and seek a better, stronger love elsewhere. But a wiser voice, or a more cynical one, had taken root to chide the naïve inner youth. Men like Alberich crowded this world like termites inside a decaying tree. They weren't _bad_ per se, but they could be brutish and coarse, determined to prove their manliness at the cost of loving their wives and children as they should. In all honesty, Samhain hadn't wanted a son. The world needed more women. And for her foolish wish, the gods gave her not just a son, but one who would face the world's cruelest quips and unkindest judgments.

Awareness of her child's vulnerability beckoned her hand to stroke his back, even if his skin sent little shock waves through her. To distract herself from her revulsion, she turned toward the mirror and stared at the owl's soul-swallowing eyes. "Mother Holda?"

Madame Holda, slowing down with lethargy, still moved around stoking the tiny fireplace and nudging the buckets when new leaks opened up in the ceiling. She paused at Samhain's voice. "Still awake, dearie? What is it?"

"Your story about the owl-glass—you never finished it. What did your grandfather say to the gentleman?"

The old woman straightened her hunching back and smirked. "Ah, that's right. Where did I leave off? Did I tell you what the gentleman said? He asked how the owl-glass truly reflected the world."

Samhain nodded and rubbed a circle on the side of the baby's head. The scales tickled the finger pad. She felt an urge to giggle. Must have been more tired than she thought.

The apothecary, or midwife, or witch, or whatever it was that best described the enigmatic, magnetic woman that was Madame Holda, sat on the stool, her bones creaking, and tilted her head at Samhain. "Well, my grandfather smiles at the man and answers him: 'The truth is, life is an illusion. It's a mess of lies, misperception and misunderstandings. Now and then we get something right, but we can never be sure which bits we see correctly. Sometimes, if we stay sharp, we can still make out the truth within the lies. You look in this mirror and you know that how you appear in the owl isn't how you _actually_ look. Even if you did, though, you can still piece together the general idea of how a person looks, when you give it enough thought. Also, no one sees the exact same thing at different angles, and you can't really understand how someone else perceives things until you stand where they stand.'

"The gentleman listens to my grandfather, miffed at his logical explanation. When my grandfather finishes, the windbag sniffs and ask, 'Why an owl, then? Because they're the wisest creatures in nature? Because they ask us _whooo_ we are? How very witty.'

"My grandfather shrugs and answers, 'That was actually a mistake on my part. I'm a bit deaf sometimes. I asked my wife what shape I should make the mirror to best reflect the world. She suggested an hourglass to show how twisted life really is. But I misheard her. I thought she said _owl_-glass, and by _twisted_, I thought she meant how an owl can twist its head around. So I didn't question her. Then one day when I was already well on my way to building my mirror, my wife came into the workshop to see my progress. When she saw that it was an owl, she asked why I hadn't taken her suggestion. I told I had and repeated what she said. When she realized what happened, you know what she did? She laughed. Laughed and laughed while looking into the mirror. And that's when I realized that I'd been right all along. An owl doesn't say, "Who?" It says, "Hoo hoo!" So does the world. It prefers laughter over learning.' Then he pushes the snooty gentleman in front of the owl-glass and says, 'Wouldn't you say that's an accurate reflection?' The gentleman leaves in a snit and never bothers my grandfather again."

Another thunder clap, deep and soft like a chuckle, sounded in the distance. The rain lightened to an intermittent pitter-patter, although water continued to drip onto the floor and into the buckets. Once in a while a burst of wind knocked against the shop to startle their nerves. Other than that, a lulling quiet suspended Samhain and her company in a peaceful trance. She could not feel the minutes passing or the night deepening. All anxieties about returning home were forgotten for now. So long as the odd thing in her arms slept, Samhain could will her world to pause, to take a breath. In the owl-glass her tired body reflected back in distorted waves, interrupted by the round protrusions in which tiny versions of herself, too small to clearly see, watched her in return. The bird's wings hugged around the bed, which caused them to also mirror her at an angle. Blurred facial features, a mound of brown hair, tanned skin and soiled sheets swirled together across the appendages.

Clearing her parched throat, Samhain flipped her head back to Madame Holda. "Is that really what happened?" she croaked.

Madame Holda spread her weathered lips into an imp's smile. Her dark eyes, hooded by wrinkled lids, twinkled even in the gloom. "Who's to say? That's just how he told it. He loved telling stories. I wouldn't be surprised if he made most of them up as he told them, but at least they were entertaining. That's what people care about in the end—a good story. Doesn't have to be true in any way, though that's usually a bonus. Just as he said: the world cares more about being entertained than learning anything meaningful."

"But that itself is a truth," Samhain pointed out. "And he was trying to show the world as it is with the owl-glass, wasn't he?"

"You're free to believe what you want, dearie."

"But—"

The old woman patted her on the shoulder. "You should sleep. The child will be up again crying to be fed before you know it. Got a name yet? Better pick one if you're going to keep him."

Samhain groaned and rubbed her face. She and Alberich had discussed it a few times. More like they'd argued over which side of the family the child would get its name from. Alberich's people, and those of many in the village, came from the north while Samhain's people originated from the west. They carried two different lineages of names. Purely for the child's sake, Samhain relented on naming the child in Alberich's ancestral tongue. It surprised her, in fact, that several of its words had passed into the common idiom of the realm. They had come no closer to deciding, however, so Samhain took the task upon herself.

"I'll have to think about it."

"Yes, do that. Sleep on it. Ideas come most easily while you sleep." Madame Holda's leathery fingers brushed across Samhain's forehead. In an instant she fell asleep.

She dreamed of many things, both past and present. She relived the day of her son's birth, particularly the storm, and how her house and the entire world trembled underneath it. The owl-glass flew into view and hooted at her frustration before transforming into Madame Holda, then into the fish-skinned infant, then into the bleating mechanical sea-goat. Then she was somewhere far away—in a grand room full of light and sparkling things she couldn't identify. The ground shook from an earthquake and sent her falling hard onto the floor. The marble tiles cracked open beneath her. In the tumult she heard a pained, mournful cry of despair and need. Samhain looked around but saw no one. It rang from every direction.

The cry changed into a scream, and her dream ended.

Samhain opened her eyes and ears to her squirming, scaly, sickly-colored newborn. His mouth was open and screeching and displaying tiny sharpened teeth. And there was Madame Holda with a bottle of formula at the ready for the early-morning feeding. After the pair calmed down the babe and satisfied his avaricious appetite, Samhain told her the name she'd thought up for him. Madame Holda grinned.

"Ah, yes. That'll do. It'll do very well, I should think."

* * *

_Notes:_

_Samhain: pronounced 'SOW-wen'. Commonly believed to mean "summer's end"._

_Rumplestiltskin: variation of Rumpelstilzchen, meaning "little stilt rattler"._


	2. The Spinner

Oh, hey, look. I did manage to write the new chapter before an unacceptable amount of time went by. Don't get used to it. Gotta keep working on the other fics. But reviews still appreciated. Enjoy!

* * *

_There was a beast, a felltop tiger, or some strange hybrid of a tiger and dragon, with glowing orangey eyes. Elphaba was sitting in its folded forearms as if on a throne._  
_"Horrors." she said again, looking without binocular vision, staring at the glass in which her parents and Nanny could make nothing out of the darkness. "Horrors."_

_—_Gregory Maguire, _Wicked_

**Chapter 2: The Spinner**

Rumplestiltskin stopped practicing magic the day after his mother died. He resumed practicing it, in his own feeble way, after his wife was gone. That didn't mean he never _used_ magic. He always felt it tingling beneath his skin. Each day he lived with the fear that, like a lightning rod in the midst of a perpetual thunderstorm, the sparks would hit and fly through him at any moment. If anyone had known his dilemma, they would've understood why he tiptoed like a water-strider in public. His limp helped distract people from this aspect of his gait. So did the label of 'village coward', which left most people to assume that Rumplestiltskin shied away from his own shadow.

For those, however, who paid attention to the trivial traits of others, and who had known Rumplestiltskin before his disastrous participation in the Ogre Wars, they would have observed that the slight, short man had always walked with skittish caution. His awkward glances could've been interpreted as fear of outside threats. They also could've been attempts to see how great a spectacle he'd make of himself should he suddenly lose control. Yet even such people would be hard-pressed to arrive at that conclusion. His parents had made an admirable effort of concealing his unearthly abilities from the rest of the village. Samhain kept him indoors as much as possible with housework and apprenticeship as a spinner. If he ever went out, she pinned him close to her side. But she knew that he needed some daily interaction with children his own age—to be at liberty to play and not fret over what may happen.

Unfortunately, an incident when Rumple was seven years old made interactions with other children a bit complicated. He had been walking home from playing pirates with his neighbors (they'd forced him to walk the plank _again_) and took a detour down to the rocky beach under the elevated houses on the wharf. He liked going down there alone to search for pebbles or debris that captured his fancy, and to escape his mother's loving but often smothering presence. He also snuck down there whenever his parents threw another row and couldn't keep their voices at a controlled volume.

Rumplestiltskin rarely met anyone on that forbidding beach, but on this day he encountered Maxmilian, a boy with more meat and fat than brains. He was three years older and twice as large. He spotted Max poking an overturned horseshoe crab. Actually, Rumplestiltskin wasn't sure if he was just poking or outright impaling the helpless creature. As soon as his eyes observed the sharpened stick in the older boy's chubby hand, Rumple stopped dead and silenced his breathing.

Max didn't look up while Rumple walked on the clacking peddles, but as soon as his feet stilled the other boy peered up. The crab was quickly forgotten. Max held onto his stick. He smirked and stalked over to Rumple, who started to shiver. Even so, his feet couldn't uproot themselves.

"Hey." The smirk pinched Max's right cheek. "If it isn't Spindleshanks. What's your skinny arse doing down here?"

Rumple's gaze retreated to his toes and the rocks surrounding them.

"Oh, not going to talk? Good. You got such a whiny voice. If you're not gonna talk, then listen: this is my place. You don't come here no more, understand?"

Deep eyes widened and pink cheeks paled. Rumple looked up at Maxmilian. The notion of never being able to come back to his special hideaway frightened him more than the prospect of Max socking him in the face or gut. For the moment, anyway. His lips somehow became unstuck. "But—"

"Now you're talking? More like squeaking. You sound like a mouse." Max laughed and shoved Rumple in the chest. "Scurry home, mousy! Don't let me catch you here again!" Another shove.

Rumple took the painful hint and turned to run. Yet as much as his soul was willing to surrender, the terrain and his feet had other ideas. His right foot stepped at an odd angle and snagged on a hidden rock anchored beneath the smaller stones. He fell face-first. Max howled with humor. Then he pounced on him, grabbed Rumple's thin locks, and smashed the younger boy's face into the pebbles.

"You like rocks, don't you? Eat 'em up, Spindlerump! Eat eat eat!"

The assault went unchallenged. Rumple could only squeeze everything shut and fight the tears while the rocks bruised and scratched his face. In his mind he screamed for Max to let him go. When the brute finally pulled up Rumplestiltskin's head, the twiggish boy's words and tears spilled out of him, unmitigated.

Contrary to what he expected, Maxmilian seemed to take his words into consideration. He shifted to examine Rumple's battered face. A malevolent light flickered in the older lad's hazel eyes. "Actually, I changed my mind. I like having someone to play with." He hauled Rumple up by the back of his tunic and dragged him over to the still overturned horseshoe crab.

"This one doesn't want to wake up," explained Maxmilian with glee. "Why don't you give it a kiss?" He forced Rumple to his knees and pushed his head down toward the pungent sea creature's belly and prickly legs.

"Max!" Rumple coughed and gasped and strained his neck and back to resist the bully's pressing weight. "Please! I won't come back, I swear!" His tears dripped onto the crustacean. The animal flinched and wriggled. The stinking odors of the ocean and its exposed guts from the stab wounds caused Rumple's stomach to writhe. He would be sick if he couldn't get a breath of fresh air.

"Too late for that. You're here now. Let's have some fun. Now, come on, give it a kiss. You're the prince, that's the princess. You need to wake her up, Rumps! Don't keep her waiting!"

Maxmilian had every physical advantage. Rumple's face descended closer and closer to the point that his nose grazed the crab's wet, ribbed underbelly. When it did, the bristled legs wriggled again and touched Rumplestiltskin's cheeks and chin. The smell poured into his nose and mouth. A violent gurgle erupted inside him. The eruption ascended hot and fast to the top of Rumple's throat and spew all over the horseshoe crab. Everything from the tip of his tongue down to his belly burned.

"Now look what you did!" Max let Rumple up and kicked him in the backside with some satisfaction. Rumple barely had time to wipe his mouth before his tormentor locked his arm around his neck. "You sure are a mess. Better wash up!" And with that both of them went hurtling toward the water.

The scene played out in Rumplestiltskin's mind before it happened: Max would drag him into the waves, mild as they were on this stretch of coast, and hold his head underwater for as long as possible. In that moment Rumple felt sure Max wanted to kill him, or at least come close to it. Abject terror summoned his limbs to action. He kicked and screamed, abandoning words for any means of escape. Fingernails, stubby and pale, slashed at Max's thick arm to no avail. His scrawny legs, though quick, lacked the force and coordination to effectively hurt the bully into freeing him. With nothing else left, Rumeplstiltskin squeezed his fingers around Max's arm, closed his eyes and wished with all his heart Max were small enough for him to crush.

He felt a gut-deep stirring, which he interpreted as a sign that he was about to be sick again. Yet he didn't feel ill. This feeling happened both inside and outside of him. It lasted only a few seconds. His bones vibrated and his skin shivered and flushed, leaving him all at once drained. He tumbled forward freely into the waves.

Rumplestiltskin spluttered for air and whipped his sopping head around. Maxmilian was out of sight. While wet clothes slowed his movements, panic endowed him with the adrenaline to run out of the surface and search. Had Max just vanished? Did he let Rumple go and run off somewhere? There was no other body to be seen on the beach.

The boy turned back to the water. No one out there, either. Just the foam of the wave crests and the green-gray water lapping toward his feet. A round brown shell was caught in the surf. It rolled with every push from a crashing swell. Rumple nearly dismissed it before a thought crossed his mind. That shell looked like it belonged to a hermit crab—except not. Curiosity alleviated his anxiety, like ointment on a sore. He knelt on the pebbles and soaked sand for a closer look. The little body he saw emerging from the shell wasn't a crab or any sea creature he'd ever seen. It was soft, squishy, slimy. Some moments of racking his brain passed before Rumple could name what he was looking at.

It was a snail. A snail caught in the salty waves. A snail that had most definitely not been there before.

While it took Rumplestiltskin several hesitant seconds to recognize the creature, he understood in only a blink that the snail was Maxmilian. In his young mind it made perfect sense. Amid the confusing collision of excitement, empowerment, surprise and terror, Rumple recalled his mother saying that snails had a strong aversion to salt. It burned them, or something like that. He scooped up the snail and frantically dried it off with his tunic. Other concerns returned to the forefront once the snail was out of immediate danger. He let the little icky thing rest in his palms. It poked its shapeless head out of the shell and felt around with gooey antennae.

"M-max?" whispered Rumplestiltskin.

The snail turned its head up to him. Rumple swallowed. A giggle and a sob both lodged in his throat and fought to come up. _He_ had done this. Rumeplstiltskin had turned the awful grunt into a garden pest. What now, though? Several choices came up. Throw him into the ocean. Drop him on the ground and squash him like he wanted to before. Just leave him on the beach for whatever fate awaited him. He'd make a nice meal for a seagull. Or better still, leave him next to the horseshoe crab he had tortured. All appealing options.

But Rumple could see what would happen when Max didn't come home. His mother would panic. As awful as Max was, he had parents and siblings who would come looking for him. People who cared for him.

He chomped down on his lip. It wasn't fair. He didn't even mean to do it. Well, maybe he did, but he didn't think he actually _could_ do it. And now he dreaded to think what Max would do to him should he manage to change him back. If the boy hadn't intended to kill him before, he would now. And he would definitely tell people. Rumple's mother had told him too many times not to say a word to anyone how he could sometimes move objects with just a feeling or thought, and by a simple touch he could turn wool on a spinning wheel into gold. Rumplestiltskin did not yet understand why secrecy was important. But his mother worried about anyone knowing to the point that should wouldn't let his father sell the spun gold. That inspired enough fear in him to obey. And as for Maxmilian, Rumple didn't know if he could change the boy back. He could try, but . . .

On swift feet Rumplestiltskin hurried back home, the enchanted snail slithering across his hands. "Don't kill me, Max, please," he panted. He hurried up the steps to the wharf and ran down the old planks to his house. Behind it where the planks ended, wooded land began. There stood a garden for herbs and all the fruits and vegetables Samhain could crowd in without exhausting the soil. On reaching the squat abode, Rumple felt all notions of telling her about the incident fleeing. He darted past the door to the garden and tossed the snail into it. He had an idea of where it landed among the leafy shrubs, though he preferred not knowing at all. After making certain no one was around, Rumple walked back to the front, opened the door and poked his head inside. He sighed to see his mother boiling water over the fireplace, her back to the window facing the garden. Rumple sidled in without a word, quiet as a cat, and went straight for the spinning wheel. His feet still didn't reach the floor or the wheel's pedal when he sat on the stool. The wool was already tied on, waiting for him. He snatched up the fluffy bundle on the seat and with a soft push sent the wheel spinning.

"Oh! Rumple, I didn't realize you were home." His mother wiped her forehead, then her hands, and came over beside him smelling of roasted fish and steaming vegetables. She smelled of home and safety. Rumplestiltskin relaxed.

"Did you have fun?"

He nodded and kept spinning. He shuffled forward to hit the footpedal with his toes and send the wheel whirling.

"You don't have to do that now, love," said Samhain while running her fingers through his hair.

"It's okay," he mumbled. He didn't want to talk. He didn't want his squeaky voice to intrude on the calming melody of creaking wood and bubbling brew. He wanted to focus on the taut wool between his fingers and his mother's hands in his hair and on his shoulders. He wanted to forget the snail now munching on their garden, plotting his vengeance. If he never had to leave home for the rest of his life, Rumplestiltskin fancied he would be quite happy.

* * *

Much like any other morning, Rumplestiltskin found himself sitting and spinning at the wheel three years to the day after Milah had been spirited off by a pirate captain. He alone reluctantly recalled the annual marking of the event. Baelfire seemed his usual self when he left to feed their dog Till and take him to let out the sheep from the pen. If only Rumplestiltskin were so fortunate. He could spin and spin all he liked, both wool and gold, but the memory never left. Its clarity receded, perhaps, like paper left in the sun. But it came back more vibrantly in his dreams.

He remembered many things about his marriage to Milah, most of which he preferred to bury deep. A reminder of one detail that refused to let him alone sat under his bed. That had been a painful day when she, in the midst of spring cleaning, had discovered the covered basket and what hid inside. When he came home from market, the look on her face—she hadn't been angry at first. That had been a surprise, since the first question to come out of her mouth was, "Did you steal this?" He tried to lie, but saying he stole it would've placed too much pressure on his brain. He fumbled through some feeble yarn that thinned Milah's patience.

"For gods' sake, Rumple," she snarled, "if you stole it, just say so."

He didn't. He told her the truth instead, which of course she didn't believe. So he demonstrated for her. That was when the anger burst to life like fire from a lightning strike. It filled her eyes as they watched the wool change to gold on the spindle and drop to the floor in a shimmering tail. She couldn't speak for an hour. Rumplestiltskin thought it informative to time it for future comparison should he reveal his secret to anyone else.

While she sat at the table, collecting her thoughts, he busied himself with boiling water for dinner, wiping off the dishes left over from lunch and hanging up the new bundle of herbs from market. He was considering finishing the sweeping and airing out the mattress when Milah asked, "How long have you been able to do this?"

His cowardly heart bounded about inside him like a restrained, terrified colt. He would never be forgiven. Milah would never understand. Yet somehow, little by little, he explained his childhood, his parents, the village he'd grown up in. He thought about telling her about Madame Holda, the eccentric apothecary whose shop provided a rare source of familiarity and comfort for him even though he had no idea why; the woman who, when he was still a child, had been executed by the clerics for the crime of witchcraft. But he didn't. It might have helped, but like many things, speaking about it gave the memory too much power, and Rumple couldn't cope with it. He stuck to the vital details. A shame they changed little. There were times Milah appeared to try to understand what he'd been through. In the end, though, her anger—the feeling of betrayal—overwhelmed any other emotion. Things only worsened when she demanded that he sell the gold. The more he resisted her, the more she raised her voice. He begged her to not shout, to lower her volume. That only infuriated her more. In the end he grabbed the basket and told her he'd dumped it in the river, as he should've years ago. He should have buried the gold at his father's house the day he left.

He did go down to the river. For the first half of his walk, Rumplestiltskin burned with conviction. He would do it. He'd dump the cursed gold and live in peace. It wasn't as if Milah would hold a knife to his throat and force him to spin more gold.

Well, he hoped she wouldn't. If she did . . . no, she'd never do that and risk little Bae surprising them.

As his mind ran laps, his resolve weakened. His feet brought him to the riverbank much too soon. The slow-flowing water whispered in his ear: dump the gold, and you'll be poor for the rest of your life. Dump it, and you'll have nothing to offer Milah should she decide to make you spin for her. And what if their circumstances changed? What if by some windfall they became better off, and suddenly it would not be so strange for them to trade pure gold threads at market? In this state of mind, Rumplestiltskin stood watch over the river. This part of it ran in the deep woods; not even the village's bravest boys came out here on their own. Woodcutters sometimes frequented the area, but that being the case, their attention was focused upward, not downward. Rumplestiltskin waded across the river, climbed back up shivering like a drowned weasel. Up the steeper westward bank he went, then found a tree with papery bark. With his whittling knife he prepared to carve his first initial. No, no, that was stupid. Instead he took out the pendant hanging around his neck—a circular, metal ornament that glinted almost like gold. On its concave side were engraved two characters from no language Rumple recognized (his readings skills were severely limited anyway). He recreated the letters in the bark. The characters were comprised of simple straight lines, which made them easy to write and inconspicuous to the unsuspecting passer-by. The first was just one vertical line. The other looked like a child's drawing of a table with only two legs showing.

The sigils complete, Rumple checked around. It was still daylight, but he felt very alone. The forest sang with bird chirps and squirrel chatter. No snapping twigs, though. No sign of anything bigger than a rabbit coming or going. Still, he kept panting until he had the gold strands buried far down enough that he could pack the earth above them. He threw a branch and some leaves over the spot to mask the disturbed soil.

He returned home, guarded with a fresh, foolproof lie. Milah still kept turning an evil-eye on him for the next two weeks. Uncomfortable as it was to endure, he worried more when Bae started to notice his mother's unrelenting anger. For him Rumple pleaded with Milah to wait it out. He'd done it protect them, after all. No, there were no clerics here, but that hardly promised safety for a magic-user. Of course Milah rebutted, "Then let's move to a place where we know that sort of thing won't bother anyone, or where no one will know we're poor. We can begin a new life."

Milah would never understand. Rumplestiltskin knew a truth about the gold deep in his bones. A truth that ran even deeper than his mother's paranoia. Even if his spinning could buy them a cushy life elsewhere, it would come at a price. Danger lived all over the world; at least here he knew what those dangers were. He wasn't young anymore. He wouldn't be able to adjust the way he used to. He'd left his native village only out of absolute desperation. He'd been alone then, too. To leave for a new home meant a greater chance of losing his wife and child to forces he didn't know.

But it seemed he was destined to lose much. His knee, the village's respect, and his wife.

He spent many troubled nights after the day he told his son another necessary lie both blaming and defending himself. Rumplestiltskin remembered his reasons for not moving as Milah had suggested—well, begged. Before the temptation of a pirate's company got her kidnapped. Then, a few nights ago, he recalled the first time she'd brought it up regarding the gold, and what he'd done with the spun gold after she found it. For once his memories served him well. Last night, after Baelfire fell asleep, he worked up the nerve to return to his cache. The tree and its mark were still there. Some gray moss had grown over the burial site. Rumplestiltskin ripped it away and dug with a spade, hoping and fearing he would find what he sought. And there it was, tarnished by grime and time, but still whole. He stuffed the strands inside his trousers, not daring to risk getting caught with them in hand and being taken for a thief. The cold metal chaffed him all the way home.

Now it was back where he first kept it, like he was repeating a part of a play. Only now there was no Milah. No one privy to his secret, and no one pushing him to sell the gold for profit and rescue them from this sad life. That had been part of it. For all its disappointments and trials, and the fact that he was branded a cowardly wretch and despised by nearly all, Rumplestiltskin had believed he was still content enough to live out his life as it was. He had a family to care for; that should've been enough. It was only after his wife was gone—after Bae had been robbed of a mother—did he feel the full force of his misery. It was possible that he'd used Milah as a crutch of sorts. She didn't make him happy anymore, but having a wife to work side by side and raise a child with him allowed things to be bearable. Bae alone lit up his world, and it stung him more than anything that such a good, strong, sharp-eyed child should be denied his mother's loving embrace and tender words. Milah wasn't the best at those things, admittedly. But she had tried. She'd tried in the beginning.

That was why Rumplestiltskin sat at his wheel, caught between wanting to forget and wanting to do what he should've done long ago. He needed to do what Milah found it hard to achieve. He had to be both father and mother to Bae, and that meant considering what was best for him without looking for excuses. It'd been hard. It still was. Today, though, his recollections wouldn't leave him alone. He tried some spinning to fight them, and ended up spinning more gold by accident. He shuddered, and took it as a sign. Despite the danger, he had to try it for his Baelfire.

Baelfire's reappearance could not have been bettered timed. The child pulled back the curtain over the doorway and let the sunshine in. His lithe figure, spritely even for a ten-year-old, stood out against the light. "Papa?"

Rumplestiltskin looked up and smiled at him. It was difficult not to wonder if Bae hadn't a touch of magic in him. Why not? "Hey, Bae. You let the sheep out?"

"Yes, papa. May I go play now?"

The spinner chuckled and reached out to his son. "If you're going to see Morraine, I suggest a little washing up first."

"She doesn't care," Bae protested in a high-pitched whine.

"Maybe, but I do." Rumple beckoned with his hands again. "No son of mine is going to visit a lady without trying to look his best."

One eyeroll later, Baelfire was at the basin scrubbing his face and arms. Thank goodness he wasn't old enough to worry about more potent body odors. Rumple could stand to wait many more years before dealing with those developments. "How long are you going to be out, son?"

"Morraine said she had to help her mother with dinner since it's her papa's birthday. I think she said I could stay till lunch." He turned to his father, face now red from working off the dirt. "Cuddy said he and the others were going to the woods. Can I go, too?"

"That's fine," chirped Rumplestiltskin. Bae often asked for extra playtime if there were no urgent chores to attend to. Thank goodness a friend had made an offer, though. Otherwise he would've needed a ruse to keep Bae out for longer than usual. "I have to go to Longbourn for the day, anyway. I should be back around dark."

"Oh." Bae's arms dropped. His eyes held a sweet, guilty look that Rumple couldn't resist smiling at. "I'm sorry, Papa. I would go with you . . ."

"No, no! I want you to spend the day with your friends. It's no matter. We can go together some other time."

"You're sure?"

"Absolutely!"

Bae set the rough rag down and, still shirtless and wet, gave his father a hug. "You're the best, Papa."

With his son's arms around him, and him beaming gratefully while still smelling of sheep and hay, Rumplestiltskin wanted very badly to believe it was true.

The prospect of getting to play all day got Bae out the door in a timely fashion. Rumplestiltskin had just enough nerve to maintain a collected, nothing-unusual-about-today façade until the boy pranced out the door toward Morraine's place. Then the spinner collapsed onto the bed and spent some time with his head in his hands to recollect himself. This would be a long day.

His marrow rattled as he gathered his cloak, his coin purse and the covered basket under the bed. The damaged tendons in his leg mocked him during his efforts to leave as quickly and discreetly as possible. He could still move speedily if he wished; like anything else, it took its toll. The road to Longbourn was a tiring one for someone in his condition. Already barely half an hour out he had to take a respite under a handy oak that shamed his stature and weakness. Its thick trunk gave him plenty to lean against, at least, and its height and thick foliage protected him from the midday sun. If only he didn't need to rest. Other people used the road, too, and walked on and on like worker ants. He avoided eye contact with everyone. He needed to get to Longbourn and back without drawing attention to himself. This goal pressed him to resume walking after only a few minutes of regaining his breath and massaging his knee.

The cool forest air helped buoy his spirits. The rich, wild earth abated his anxieties a little. He still preferred the gentle rolling hills of the grassy pastures where his sheep spent their carefree days. Well, carefree except for the threat of wolves. But wolves, Rumple found, tended not to target sheep unless they were desperate. Usually lone, hungry beasts preyed on them. Due to perhaps the long fraught history between wolves and humans, the former preferred avoiding them altogether. The latter continued to assume their enemies waited in every shadowed glen, ready to attack at a moment's notice.

Rumplestiltskin felt it wise to fear wolves even if they feared people just as much. He was sure he didn't have it in him to face down a wolf should the occasion call for it. If he knew how to tame one, it'd be a different matter. His mother, raised by her spinner grandmother, who understood the dangers of keeping sheep, often reminded him that once you controlled something, you no longer had to fear it.

No wolves needed to haunt this road to keep Rumplestiltskin on edge; people were terrifying enough. He felt the urge to flinch away from any who walked too close, and his flesh writhed at first when he, while alone, observed a cloaked man crouching next to the road. Rumplestiltskin started to cross to the other side when a soft voice from under the hood beseeched, "Alms for the poor?"

His fear trickled away. The man was just a beggar. On another day, under more ordinary circumstances, Rumplestiltskin might have passed him without a second look. Today, his hand touched the cloth covering his basket. In it lay the chance to live a good life with his son. Here before him was a man who had nothing. He could spare a little something for him. So Rumple crossed back over and approached the beggar.

"Here you go," he quietly answered the man's call. A few coppers appeared from his purse. For a second he considered bequeathing a string of gold. Fear caught up to him. Though the beggar was surely a nobody, he just couldn't chance word getting around this close to the village of him owning such a treasure.

When he held out the coins for the beggar, a hoary head peeked up. Blue eyes brightened with pained joy. "Oh! Oh, thank you, kind sir! Thank you!"

Rumplestiltskin shrugged and dropped the coins into the beggar's eager hands. He felt about as ease in that moment as he did with just Bae around—until he turned and his walking staff, caught in the soft dirt of the roadside, tangled with his legs and threw off his balance. He stumbled forward. The basket slipped from his arm. The cloth partly slid off the top.

The blunder lasted a few seconds. Rumple regained his footing and grabbed the basket and its covering. When he looked back, the beggar's eyes were on him, wider than before. Terror cast a silencing spell over the spinner's tongue. He could only shiver and limp away in a hasty retreat. A backward look now and then showed the beggar shrinking into the distance. The old man, for one reason or another, held his place beside the road. Never moving. Only watching with a questioning gaze. The image was burned into Rumple's mind's eye even after he gave up watching and continued on. Like a hot brand in the shape of the beggar's eyes had been pressed against his brain.

The town of Longbourn, a busier trading post than Rumplestiltskin's village, came into view when he overcame the last rise in the road and the treeline yielded to a shallow vale. The sun, already beyond its apex, floated over the hamlet like a benevolent guardian. The buildings in the town center rose higher than any others Rumple had seen. Some had as many as four storeys, and the roofs were laid with tiles rather than thatch. As it was a market day, the square was dotted with stalls and tents, and the roads crawled with ant-sized pedestrians and carts. A person could lose themself in that throng and pass unnoticed by most. Some optimism flickered to life in Rumplestiltskin. In a prosperous town like this, brimming with people, selling his gold strands should not strike anyone as particularly odd. Why had he not tried this sooner? His fear—the chronic cowardice that marked him like a leper and whispered doubts to him—must have blinded him.

He'd forgotten how manic market day could be in Longbourn. The town's thriving state had come about within the last few years, after tinkers and engineers from the south, he'd heard, had arrived and improved water distribution and waste removal, and introduced machines to facilitate certain types of labor. Better looms, plows with self-moving parts, even a local printing press. Evidence of these technological developments met Rumplestiltskin's eyes when he entered the town itself. How clean the streets were! Hardly a waft of dung or piss from man or beast could be sniffed in public areas. The town's masters, at the suggestion of the southern migrants, sent out civil servants to collect the detritus from people's homes, much of which would be used as fertilizer. Rumplestiltskin almost jumped out of his clothes when a cart driven by two men pushing rotating pedals, instead of a horse or ox, came close to running him down. He bumped into a young man to get away. Both men exchanged apologies, but Rumple was still fascinated by the contraption passing them by.

"What is that?" he wondered aloud.

"They call that a cycle-cart," the stocky youth explained with an exuberant grin. "Not from around here, are you? The waste collectors started using it last year. I hear there's things like that all over the streets of Dem."

Rumplestiltskin's breath hitched. He'd heard little snippets of gossip about the city-state of Dem. A strange, fantastical place according to most accounts. It sat at the heart of the Seven Realms, residing in none of them. "Have you ever been there?" he asked the youth.

"Oh, no. Too far away. But I hear they have even more amazing machines than this. Some machines can go all on their own! Just hit a pedal or button, and its got these inner moving bits that make it run. And I hear the town clock is powered by the sun. That's why they call Dem the Sun Clock City."

Though intrigued, Rumplestiltskin suddenly remembered how precious his time was, and with a thank-you bid the young man good day. He hurried down the street toward the central square where prospective clients awaited him. He took a moment to tuck the cloth into the basket to prevent any more accidents like what he'd experienced on the road. From there he trained himself to keep a detached air and not let the riling panic simmering inside him come to the surface.

Stalls for smiths, welders, weavers, tailors, jewelers and more met his eye. Rumplestiltskin shuddered, overwhelmed. He'd not thought this far ahead. Who would want to pay for strands of gold? Who would offer the best price? The noises of customers haggling and traders shouting what their wares were sent jolts through him. Rumplestiltskin started to fear that his nerves would abandon him and the magic buzzing in the fibers of his little body would respond to even the most harmless stimulus without restraint.

It was still the afternoon, but he needed a drink to calm down. A short visit to the tavern placed him in the less than comfortable confines of a cramped space overflowing with booze and inebriated patrons, laughing like crows or staring like rabid bulldogs. Rumplestiltskin never set down his basket. He clutched it to him like an infant. Though it was daylight, the pub received a steady inflow of customers. Rumplestiltskin had to wait a while for a free table, but it was worth it to have some privacy and be able to keep a close hand on his merchandise without provoking questions. He nudged and wriggled through the many bodies to reach the open table with his half-pint of ale.

Try as he did to work out a strategy, Rumplestiltskin's mind soon wore itself out. His drink was gone in a blink. He knew better than to order more and risk getting tipsy. He would need his wits about him. The chatter in the place overlapped his thoughts, and he wanted nothing more than to slink into a hole and shut out the world, his fears and his responsibilities. The empty mug in front of him was the closest he got to his wish.

"Hey, there!" someone shouted.

Unaware of whom the voice addressed, Rumple decided to look up. He found a group of men a little younger than him approach his table. A tall fellow with a black stubble threw a grin at him. "Mind moving? My friends and I want to sit here."

Rumple glanced around. Other tables started to open up as people finished their beverages and stood to leave. He took a chance. "Would you mind sitting somewhere else?" he asked, keeping his head low while turning his gaze up to the man.

The grin vanished. "Yeah, actually, I do mind. You're taking up a whole table."

A stunned scoff escaped the spinner. "Hardly!" If they insisted on sharing the table with him, he would tolerate it, but he needed a few more minutes to sort himself out.

The men didn't seem to understand this. They thought he was making a quip at their expense. A muscled hand dug into Rumple's upper arm. He had nothing to grab to stop the unshaven man from hauling him to his feet. "A wise-arse, eh? Know what we do with wise-arses around here?"

"Wait, please!" Rumplestiltskin threw up his hands in front of his face. "Take the table! I wasn't making trouble!"

The man snickered. "That's what I thought."

"Hey!" From somewhere Rumple couldn't see, a deep female voice reached his startled ears. "Take it outside, Garth. No brawling!"

"No brawling here, love." The man's scintillating smile returned. He and all his companions turned and regarded a sturdy, busty barmaid with affable smiles and greetings that made Rumple squirm. "Our friend was just leaving."

Rumple seized the basket. No challenging them again. He might as well go. Garth encouraged him with a gratuitous push that sent him toward the barmaid and elicited some amused chuckles from his comrades. Rumplestiltskin would not let himself look back. The fact no one tried to peek into his basket was all that mattered. He started to make for the door before remembering that he still had no plan of what to do with the gold.

The barmaid touched his elbow, prompting him to turn to her. "Sorry about that lot, sir. They're used to throwing their weight around and getting their way. Would you like something?"

Rumple waved a hand and smiled gratefully. "No, thank you. But I was wondering if . . . if you could tell me . . . where people usually go at this market for gold."

The woman tilted her head. "Gold? Are you buying or selling?"

A good question. "Uh . . . just scouting, but I . . . my master wanted me to see where people usually trade it."

"Hmm. I see." She scratched behind her delicate ear. She was a lusty thing, delicate and full-bodied in the right places. Rumplestiltskin's experiences at romance and intimacy were far and few between, however, and never ended well. It seemed better to give up on the notion altogether and spare himself further pain.

"I'd probably go to the money-changers first. If your master wants to convert from coins to bricks, or the other way round, that'd be the place. Is that any help?"

Of course, the money-changers. Rumplestiltskin wanted to slap himself. "Yes, very much. Thank you."

"No trouble, love," She petted him on the shoulder. "Good luck on your search. And don't let folks like Garth intimidate you. They're mostly hot air, and the rest of them is just as human as anybody else."

Little consolation that gave him. Rumple was sure Garth's fists weren't full of hot air. But he smiled and bowed to her, then dropped a tip in her hand. She sent him away with a flirtatious wink he wished he could've answered with charm and grace. Instead he hid his reddening face and hurried as fast as a cripple could. It should have occurred to him to ask for directions to the money-changers, but Rumplestiltskin would not go back inside. He pressed on.

As the day passed, the crowds thinned out and he could wander the streets without suffocating or twitching like a skittish rodent. By some blessing, he rounded a corner past a puppet theatre and spotted a sign for the money-changers just down the street. Finally! This really was the best alternative. The money-changers would know how much his gold was worth and would return the optimal amount of cold cash for it. A straight-forward exchange. What more could he ask for?

Filled with renewed purpose, Rumple took three steps down the street and bumped into a running child. The blond girl stood only two-and-a-half feet high, which even by Rumplestiltskin's standards was dwarfish. She was only five or so, and her blue eyes rounded in utter astonishment that disarmed him immediately.

"Careful, dearie," he remarked playfully, then gave her back a pat. "It's dangerous not to look where you're going."

"Goldie!" cried a woman to his left. Soon she appeared next to both of them, dark hair pulled back from her ruddy face. "What have I told you about running?"

The child bit her lip and mumbled an apology. Her mother, or so Rumplestiltskin presumed, was not satisfied. "It's this gentleman you should apologize to, not me."

"It's all right," he interjected. "I wasn't watching where I was going, either."

Sighing, the woman wiped her brow and gazed at him like someone who bore a great burden on her shoulders that no one else could see. "That may be, but Goldie runs around like a wild animal all the time." She aimed a scorching stare down at the little girl. "Isn't that right?"

The girl first giggled. Her mother's glare warned her and she schooled her giggle behind a repentant face. "Sorry, sir."

Rumplestiltskin lightly ruffled the sun-bleached locks on her soft head. He looked up again to bid her mother farewell. What he saw behind her stopped him. A sign reading _Bernard's Jewelry._"Oh. You sell jewelry?"

The woman smirked. "That's what the sign says."

"Like necklaces?"

"Of course."

The gears in his head moved in a new direction, away from the money-changers. This was a terrible idea, yet so impossible to resist. He could still go to the money-changers afterward, but he ought to try and sell a few strands if he could. Just to see if a jewelry-maker would find his merchandise desirable. It couldn't hurt, could it?

"Interested in something?" the woman—Madame Bernard, he presumed—asked.

He gulped. "Actually, I thought you might be interested in something I have."

Her smile dropped. Rumplestiltskin understood that look all too well. "We're not buying right now, I'm afraid."

"B-but—" Rumple took another gulp of air and pressed the woman's arm with extreme care, afraid of frightening her away but wanting to move their conversation out of the middle of the street. "But you can use what I have for your jewelry. Just take a look."

Though her eyebrows pinched the bridge of her nose like two caterpillars angrily head-butting, Madame Bernard complied as far as her stall front. Her child followed closely behind with an open expression of curiosity. Her attention drifted down to the basket hanging from the crook of Rumple's arm. "Can I see?" she piped up.

A nervous, burning shudder scurried down his neck, yet Rumplestiltskin managed to keep a friendly countenance—a genuine one. He did like the little girl's enthusiasm. "If your mother says it's all right, sure."

It must have been a long, frustrating day for the woman. He read it in the lines of her face—lines not suited for someone of her youth. She didn't want her time wasted, nor for wandering traders in ratty cloaks to take her for a ride. But he'd asked her only for a look. So she beckoned him to lift up the basket to let her see. Rumple forced his body to comply without shaking. Up the basket came, and with a surprisingly steady hand he pulled back the cloth. Breathless moments passed. The woman's eyes slowly kindled with glowing wonder. She was so flabbergasted her jaw could only bob up and down, forming no words.

"Lemme see, lemme see!" Tiny hands reached for the mysterious basket. Rumplestiltskin's body loosened with relief and his mind cleared of panic. He more than obligingly lowered it so Goldie could look. She almost buried her head in it, then drew back. Her heart-shaped face embodied all the reverence a child can muster. "They're . . . _beautiful_," she whispered.

Only the feeble of temperament let a child's words, however deeply meant, bring them to tears. Rumplestiltskin eyes prickled with tears all the same, and his heart was torn between shame and joy. To dam up the salty floods, he latched all his attention onto the mother.

"They're pure gold. You can use these in all kinds of ways. You could melt them down for general use, or braid them into necklaces and bracelets. You could even sell them as hair decorations. What do you say?"

Madame Bernard plucked up a single thread and, much to Rumple's anxiety, brought it out into daylight and held it up. Her fingers ran up and down the length of it to gauge the texture, pliability and strength. "How . . . how did you get it like this? It's gold, all right, but it bends like . . . like actual thread. It's _soft _like actual thread." Her eyes left the gold for him.

For once, even with his poor nerves, a grin from Rumplestiltskin came of its own accord. "Trade secret."

His answer was granted a heart-warming chuckle. "All right, I'm impressed. How much for each strand?"

Rumple performed some quick, rough calculations in his head and pegged the price high enough to start the haggling. A few exchanges later the price was settled. Madame Bernard bought five long strands she could divide up. "Will you be coming back next market day?" she asked while slipping behind her stall with her purchase.

Hefting his purse, newly laden with more silver coins than he'd ever seen in his life, Rumplestiltskin felt like a new man. "I hope so. This is my first time selling these here, actually."

"Oh? Are we your first customers, then?" Madame Bernard still watched him but busied herself with straightening the rows of gold and silver chains, bracelets and broaches. Goldie hopped up onto an empty part of the counter to alter between staring at the jewelry and gawking at him like he was some sort of fascinating sorcerer.

"Indeed."

"I'd try Neal, the tailor a few booths that way." She pointed in the opposite direction from the money-changers. "He's always looking for new innovations to spice up his garments. Maybe he'd like to use these threads as accents."

Rumple thanked her from the bottom of his heart. He wouldn't go overboard with how many people he'd try to sell to, but it relieved him to know that this woman, and hopefully the tailor, had not thought it peculiar that he was vending something so valuable when he himself looked—well, like a poor spinner.

"Can I have one of those threads, Mama?" he caught Goldie asking as he waved goodbye and moved on. His heart fluttered. How rewarding to not only successfully make a sale and earn a handful of silvers, but to sell to someone who would put the threads to good use. Had he gone to the money-changers, who knows how long they would've sat in a vault, holding no value other than being a precious, shiny substance.

The tailor's response to his initial offer, and then the reveal of what lay in his basket, resembled Madame Bernard's. Rumple left out the fact that he'd been sent here by her to circumvent stirring up competition. At least for now. If he came back and found that his wares were still wanted, then he could start spreading a little rivalry among willing customers. Neal bought two strands and considered out loud that he could use it for a commission he'd been given by a member of the Duke of the Frontland's court. Although Rumple wouldn't be earning the profits from that commission, he felt a swell of pride and excitement. If people that high up took an interest in the real gold trimming some knight's coat or robe, he could be responsible for setting a new fashion trend. Rumplestiltskin walked on air down the street. Courage like none he'd ever known propelled him to casually make more offers to a few artisans of various crafts—clocks, candleholders, toys, tableware. Though some expressed more shock and suspicion, none turned him down, and it was not hard to argue a favorable price.

The excursion, which was turning out much better than he'd hoped, left Rumple delighted with his earnings. He'd already earned more today than he'd earned in half a year spinning wool. He treated himself to a quick meal before stopping by the money-changers to unload the rest of the gold. A good thing he'd sold the rest of it beforehand, for the severe square man behind the counter deflated some of Rumple's confidence as he appraised the strands with searing eye and unkind hands. The spinner lost the surety he'd gained in fetching a good price. The money-changer grunted a few words that gold in this form was not as desirable as bricks, not to mention its size equaled less value.

It mattered little in the end. Rumplestiltskin wanted the gold off his hands. When the money-changer named his estimated value, the spinner acquiesced. If his new trade boomed, swapping gold for coins would become a last resort. He still thanked the blocky, squatting man, then hobbled out with a slightly heavier heart and set for the road home.

With the basket now empty, he could walk more quickly through the darkening woods. His terror of wolves and specious strangers started to come back. Rumplestiltskin turned his thoughts to Bae. How excited his boy would be when he got home, burdened with silver pieces to show him! Of course he'd have to explain how it acquired them. An explanation was long in coming. He was willing to keep some unpleasant secrets from Baelfire, but not this. If he intended to use his magic this way, they would both be in on it. He couldn't send Bae off all the time to a friend's house or keep him out of doors with chores. His greatest fear was that Bae would be frightened of him to learn what he could do. It might take time for the lad to adjust to the idea and to trust his father knowing he possessed something unearthly and potentially dangerous. Well, not the spinning gold bit. More along the lines of turning people into snails or whatever else. But Bae was a brave, loving boy. Everything would be done to assure him that there was nothing to fear. Rumplestiltskin would let only one person be scared of his powers.

His thoughts sailed around the topic like a boat trying to port at an uncharted island. So caught up was he in his meditations that the hoofbeats on the road behind him did not register until they were nearly on top of him. Instinct finally kicked in, and without fully turning back to his pursuers, Rumple sprinted off the road and down a small gully. He tried to make for the denser section of the forest, tossing aside all thoughts of famished predators. His retreat was cut off by a rider on horseback. Others closed in around him. Expecting the worst, Rumplestiltskin lowered his head and watched the horsemen at the same time. Contrary to what he assumed, these were not soldiers patrolling the road. They wore commoners' clothes, most belonging to craftsmen by the more expensive yet still simple tunics.

Rumplestiltskin's blood froze when he rotated and came face to face with Garth atop a bay-colored beast that snorted in his face. Rumple jumped back, trembling.

"I was right," the man pronounced in a slurred snarl. He dropped down with a hard thud from the horse. A brief stumble informed the spinner that Garth, and very likely his entire entourage, had had a little too much to drink. Whatever they had consumed wasn't enough to rob Garth of all his facilities, for he corrected his footing in time and swaggered the rest of the way to Rumple without further incident. His eyes held a black blaze. Rumplestiltskin swallowed for all to hear. Had he really offended them so? Over a table? Thank goodness the tradesmen at the Longbourn market weren't as proud. Though he wanted to ask what they wanted more with him, he again discovered his tongue tied up.

The answer came in a blinding flash when Garth took out a gold strand from the pouch hanging from his hip. "Did you sell this to my wife?"

Words still resisted Rumple's control, but he _had_ to answer if he wanted his head and limbs to stay attached. "I . . . y-your wife?"

"My wife!" hollered Garth. "She sells jewelry! I should know, I make half the damn things! Did you sell this to her today?"

Every nightmare Rumplestiltskin ever had about being found out started leaking into his conscious mind. "Madame Bernard? Y-yes, I did. Is there a problem?"

As though he expected a different answer, Garth gawked at Rumplestiltskin, then guffawed. "You! _You_ sold her some gold? That really is something!"

"Come on, you louse," taunted another of the men surrounding him, "we're not idiots. The only way someone likes you gets his hands on _that _is if he stole it."

Another fellow snickered humorlessly. "To think he had the nerve to then _sell them_ to everyone in town!"

"It's not nerves!" Garth growled, his mirth gone. "It's stupidity is all. And insulting to think we wouldn't notice." Rumplestiltskin glimpsed the redness in the whites of Garth's eyes, yet his voice kept a steady pace and forcefulness. "I'll give you one last chance. Where did you steal it from?"

It was Milah all over again, only these men might slit his throat after all. And like that other time, Rumplestiltskin had no lie to save him. He really ought to draw up a list as insurance. But he didn't want to lie. To confess to thievery meant a total loss of market in Longbourn, and word would probably spread to other hamlets at lightning speed, since so many people passed through and picked up news there. What he really required was an alibi to explain how he came by the gold honestly, free of any mention of magic. As things stood, he bit back a whimper and said with unbridled frankness, "I swear, I didn't steal anything."

Garth bent down toward him. His beer-laced breath singed Rumple's face. "All right. Where'd you get the gold?"

"I . . . I can't say."

Unforgiving chuckles ran in a ring around him.

"You can't say." The corners of Garth's mouth rose up and carved dimples into his scruff-covered cheeks. "Well, I can believe that."

He waved his hand. The others descended their mounts, a few armed with clubs while others seemed assured their hands would be enough.

"Search him!" Garth roared.

A dozen pairs of hands came at him. Rumplestiltskin didn't think. He simply curled into himself and let some hard feeling in the pit of his gut suddenly expand. A moment's awareness wanted this expanding energy to turn into a shield. The half-thought barely took shape before something burst inside him. He cried and gasped in harmony with a chorus of yelps. Horses whinnied and hooves pounded against the ground.

Realizing that he still hadn't been tackled, he peered through his fingers. Every man, including Garth, had been thrown onto his back a few feet away. The horses, untethered, had bolted. A familiar maelstrom welled up in him. The same emotions he'd experienced that day on the beach with Maxmilian. But unlike that day, his persecutors could still render him harm. They got back to their feet, dashing any hope of escape for Rumplestiltskin unless he could do what he just did again. But the tight ball of power was gone. A one-time phenomenon, it seemed.

"What the hell was that?" Garth stammered.

Rumplestiltskin would have loved some clarification himself. None came. Instead came two arms to pin Rumple's to his body. His capture gave the men time to recover and take action. His cloak was torn off him, as was his basket. Some felt up his legs and arms; others made quick work of his belt to free the purse with his day's earnings.

"No! Please!" Even when Rumplestiltskin worked up the courage to struggle, too many palms and fingers were there to neutralize him. When they finished their search, hands balled into fists and wailed on his face, back and ribs. One man lucked out by connecting his foot with the spinner's bad knee, causing so much pain Rumple couldn't even scream.

"Don't do this, please," he wheezed eventually, once the lot had their fill of pummeling him and left him crumpled on the ground. "I have a son. I didn't steal! My boy needs that money!"

"So do our boys," said Garth. "Whatever you are, don't even think about coming back."

To move or speak would be to invite more blows, if not death. Rumplestiltskin was too afraid to even shed tears. He played possum to the pleasure of his attackers, who slapped each other on the back on a job well done. They split the spoils and marched back to Longbourn, never glancing back.

Maybe it would've been better to die there. Rumplestiltskin couldn't stand thinking about going home empty-handed, bruised and mortified to his boy. As if Baelfire didn't have to suffer enough from their neighbors and the whispers of the man who ran from the frontline in the Ogre Wars, leaving his comrades to die. Rumplestiltskin also didn't want to move from the pain. He was quiet sure his lip had burst open. A tiny river of blood ran into his mouth and over his tongue. He sucked on his lip to stop the flow. Somehow it comforted him enough that he wanted to try moving his fingers. Just to check if they still worked. That would be the worst; let every other bone be broken, but not his fingers. They were all he had left to earn him a living. Bae aside, they were the only thing of true value he possessed.

The digits wiggled obediently. It was enough. Rumple used the strength it fed him to sit up. He got as far up as his elbows when the sounds of a cracking twig and crushed leaves landed on his ears. He hushed and stilled. It didn't stop a hand from catching his sleeve. With no reason to maintain any facade of fortitude, Rumple broke into a whimper and flinched in feral terror.

"No, no! It's all right." The person belonging to the hand came round. In the fading light, he was only a shapeless shadow until he knelt down in front of Rumplestiltskin. His figure was obscured by his ragged cowl and the hood draped over his head. Blue eyes stared out of them, a little wild but harmless. Rumple recognized them.

It was the beggar. "I'm here to help."

"What? Why?" Rumple mumbled through his swelling lip.

"You need it," the beggar cooed. He seized Rumplestiltskin's arm and pulled him up with concealed strength.

"I . . . can't pay you." The spinner's limbs did what they could to move and aid the beggar's efforts. "They took everything."

"Don't worry. All I need is a roof and some food for a few hours."

"But my village is—"

"I know. I saw which way you came. We'll make it."

Rumplestiltskin hadn't thought they wouldn't make it at some point, but he worried about Bae coming home to no one and left to wonder how long he'd be alone. The thought helped him push through his pain and weariness, as did the beggar's unassuming frame. Every step was a trial, and their gradual trek seemed to stretch well into the night. Rumple thought he blacked out a few times, for sooner than he'd dared believe, he could see the lights of his village. "Nearly there," said the beggar.

By the time they arrived at the poor excuse for a door to his home, Rumplestiltskin had numbed himself to the agony of his injuries. He couldn't continue as he did and acknowledge the pulse in his aggravated knee or the trickles of blood painting streaks down his face. But when he thoughtlessly touched his head and pulled away to see red on his fingertips, he gasped and stopped walking.

"I can't let my son see me like this! He'll lose his mind with worry."

The beggar cocked his head to look him over. "Is there a river nearby where you can wash off?"

Rumplestiltskin nodded. The pair turned around for the river in the wood. When they reached it, the murmuring current sang in Rumple's mind. Though a few memories connected with this place still stuck him in the chest, the inviting coolness of the stream overwhelmed his recollections. He collapsed on the bank, sighed with a mix of pain and bliss when the beggar used a small tin cup to collect the water and splash it on his wounds. They couldn't treat every lump and laceration. They didn't need to. Just the blood specks and cuts, and some of the burning. Rumple used the inside of his cloak to scrape away all traces of violence. A few blood drops stained his tunic; he'd have to say he cut his finger on a thorn or something out of carelessness. Indeed he'd been careless, but on a different scale, and with much steeper consequences. He let his head droop as he sat for a while to dry.

The evening was chilly for summer. Then again, summer was coming to a close. Rumplestiltskin tried to work out whether this night marked the end of something for him, too. He'd exposed himself, with the gold and with that defensive blast. Now he could never go back to Longbourn. Would word come here of what happened? He hadn't given anyone his name; would the villagers here connect him with the gold-peddler who may or may not be a magic-user in disguise? Perhaps not. It still meant he'd have to give up on his plan. He'd failed Bae. He'd failed to be the parent he should've been.

"Copper for your thoughts?" asked the beggar. His voice tickled him like a gust in the trees.

Rumple raised his nose and breathed in. Woodsmoke and the first scent of decaying plants tainted the air. "Summer's ending."

The beggar shrugged. "True. Others would say autumn is beginning."

"Is there a difference?"

"Oh, yes! One's an ending, one's a beginning. What you choose to call it says a lot about who you are."

Rumplestiltskin barked a laugh. It hurt his throat. "Trust me, nothing's going to 'begin' after tonight. I've ruined everything."

"Oh?" The beggar went quiet for a few seconds. Somehow the pause stretched on and on to the point that Rumple was desperate for him to say more. He fulfilled his wish. "Does it have to do with the gold in the basket?"

Sandy-brown tresses fell into Rumplestiltskin's eyes as his head drooped more. "Yeah. You saw it, huh?"

The beggar waited again to speak. He watched Rumplestiltskin in a way the spinner couldn't decipher. He seemed concerned for him, but kept his distance. Didn't want to smother him with false words of hope. His silence said more, though what it said remained a mystery. Suddenly, though in a slow, careful motion, the beggar pushed off his hood. The curls adorning his head, except for the bald spot at the top, caught the moonlight with silver fire and faint gold highlights. His blue orbs had the same soothing coolness as the river.

They glanced away from Rumplestiltskin, then returned. "I saw what you did to those men. Before they pinned you. You knocked them back with something . . . from inside you."

Rumple hid behind the curtain of his hair, but he looked the beggar in the face. "I guess so."

"Is that how you made the gold?"

His hands shook. Given that, he should've felt more afraid, but didn't. Not now that the beggar had witnessed it all. ". . . yes. Sort of. I spun it."

"Ah." The beggar knitted his fingers and cradled them in his lap. "How long have you been able to do that?"

"Since I was a child."

For the first time the beggar let his surprise show. Or this was the first thing to surprise him all day. Rumplestiltskin didn't know which worried him more. "Really? But you don't seem to have a handle on . . . _that._"

"Well, no. I've never put it to use. No one's ever showed me. I was discouraged from using magic, actually. And I'm the only person I know who can do that sort of thing."

"Not even your son?"

Rumple didn't like bringing up Bae in this context. He rolled his stiffening shoulders. "No."

"I see. But the spinning, you can control that."

"Oh, yes." Spinning gold wasn't nearly as terrifying.

"Then you should be living in a manor or a castle, not a little hut." The beggar's voice raised to a shrill pitch. Another first.

Rumplestiltskin spread his hands. "You saw what happened today when I tried to sell it. Were I already better off, I'd have no trouble. But no one will believe that someone like me has an honest means of getting gold. I've no choice."

The beggar leaned in. "Everybody has a choice. You just need a different strategy."

"What's the use? We're always going to be poor. It's our lot in life. It's not the poverty that bothers me."

"No . . . but something does." The beggar's eyes seemed to change from watery blue to mercury.

Many things bothered Rumplestiltskin. He didn't _like _being poor, but he could live with it. He could live with a great deal because cowards understood the value of adaptation. As long as you can crawl back into your corner and live on, many things can be tolerated. But there were voices in Rumplestiltskin's mind-ghosts living in his memories-that spat their loathing of his cowardice at him. His father, his wife, the soldiers he served with, the villagers. He could rationalize all he wanted: they would still hate him, and he would be compelled to agree.

But there had been a few people who hadn't faulted him for who he was. Those were the people he loathed disappointing. So far, that seemed to be all he was capable of. First his mother, now Baelfire.

"I want what's best for my boy," he whispered to the beggar. To the encroaching darkness. "And I know I've denied him things by being . . . _all_ the things I am. I'd rather hide; he'd rather fight. I've kept him in this life because it's easier. And now, even when I've tried taking a risk, it's fallen apart in my hands." His throat closed up on him. Tears gathered like an army preparing to charge. He was powerless to hold them back, as he'd been powerless in the end to stop Garth and his brutish companions. But the words found a power of their own, and crawled out between his tense lips and clenching teeth.

"The worst thing I can imagine is losing him. I want him to be safe. But . . . I still feel that I could do more, as much as it terrifies me. But what _can_ I do? My powers are useless! I don't even know what I am capable of. It's . . . just too much." The sob that followed stuck for a second.

He tried not to listen to his weeping as it rebounded in stuttered echoes through the trees. The water and the rustling leaves became a welcomed roar. He might have succeeded in losing himself in the cacophony had the beggar not taken a hold of his hand.

"Take it easy, son." A quick pat, and he retreated. "What if . . . what if there were a way for you to control your powers, and to live somewhere where you would be accepted-admired, even? Would you leave this village for your son's sake?"

Rumplestiltskin looked up and scowled. "What are you talking about?"

His skin crawled like never before when the beggar smiled. "Have you ever heard of Hamelin?"

"No?"

"It's a city near the southern border of the kingdom of Loramaine. Just fifty miles north of Dem. I've heard there's a school—a university, actually—attended by people from all over the realms. People of all stations, regardless of fortune. And they have someone who specifically teaches people with a propensity for sorcery."

Thanks to his nerves, Rumple erupted into harsh, breathless laughter. "Sorcery? I'm no sorcerer. Who would want to teach me anything?"

"How else will you know what you can really do?"

"But who would I go to? How would I get in? I wouldn't even know how to act around those kinds of people. I haven't been in a schoolroom in years, and it was for such a short time. I'm not a scholar."

The moon must've slipped out behind some clouds, for the beggar's eyes lit up with reflected light as well as intensifying enthusiasm. "The mission of Hamelin University is to not let those sorts of things be obstacles. No one will be denied an education if it's truly what they desire. The next semester starts in a month; you still have time to apply to the school. But think about it: if you go and learn not only about sorcery, but other things on top of it, you won't be restricted to just spinning for a living. You could do whatever you want. A world of possibilities at your fingertips. Not just for you, either. For your son, too." He was so close now his leg was touching Rumplestiltskin's. How had he not noticed before? But the beggar spoke with nothing but concern. His eyebrows rose and his brow furrowed to accent his words, lending them the air of an impassioned plea. "And you would _never_ again have to feel that you're not being a good father."

Rumplestiltskin couldn't fix his gaze on the beggar; his words were hard and soft at the same time and made Rumple's eyes sting. He refreshed his composure with glances at the river that washed away filth. Could it wash away his shame and doubts so easily? It was too good to be true.

He sucked in a breath and looked back at the beggar. "Why are you telling me this? Why do you care? How do you know so much?"

The beggar pulled back again, but only enough to encourage Rumplestiltskin to take in his face. "I'm an old man: I've seen and heard much. And . . . well, I've never been a parent myself, and I carry that sad fact everywhere I go. I feel . . . called to help those who have taken on the burden of raising a child and want to be the best they can be, but feel that something stands in their way."

Rumple's laugh came out much quieter. It threatened to change into a sob. He couldn't speak anymore. There was so much to think about, and his memories loved to come back swinging and raring when he had to work through something like this. But he must not spin tonight. His head had to be clear and allow cruel reminders punish him for just one night.

He'd do it for Bae. If not himself (hisself would've liked to pretend he'd never met the beggar), then for the person who would be most affected. Who had his whole life before him. Who still had a chance for all the things he still dreamed of.

"It's getting late!" The beggar rolled onto his feet and stood. He stretched down a hand to Rumplestiltskin. "We shouldn't keep your boy waiting."

Rumplestiltskin took the hand and pushed himself up, ignoring his aches. "Right! And I still owe you that meal."

"All in good time, my friend." The beggar continued to offer his arm and shoulder to the hurting spinner from the river all the way back to the cottage. "All in good time."


	3. Hamelin

Let me just say one quick thing - spinning wheels are damn complicated! They've got these moving parts and all these tension lines and different speed settings you have to adjust and oh my gosh. But it's really cool to see in motion.

* * *

**Chapter 3: Hamelin**

It would never have occurred to Rumplestiltskin until this moment - when he told Baelfire to take a seat at their splintering kitchen table - that anything could be more terrifying than facing down a full-grown ogre. Granted, ogres still ranked very high on his list of things worth being terrified of. But this moment set Rumplestiltskin's heart racing and his ears pounding. He started to doubt himself.

"What's wrong, Papa?" the ten-year-old asked. "Am I in trouble?"

Somehow, Rumplestiltskin's smile found him again. His gut was still wound up like a clockwork toy. He would have to force himself through it. "No, of course not." He took his time sinking down on the chair across from his son. He propped his staff against the table in such a way so that he knew, from practice, it wouldn't fall. "But we do need to talk about something before we do anything else today."

They'd already had breakfast. Bae had been ready to follow through with routine by heading out to let the few sheep they owned into the pasture. Today was warmer, so the curtain over the hut's doorway was drawn back. Till, their shaggy sheepdog, had trotted inside and settled between Rumple and Bae's feet under the table. The dog was waiting to go out, albeit with wise patience. His tail thumped against Rumplestiltskin's good leg, which helped distract him from the heartbeat in his head and chest.

At his father's words, Baelfire put his hands on the table and started twiddling his thumbs. He bowed his head while looking up to meet Rumplestiltskin's eyes. He still thought he'd done something to warrant this "talk".

_It's not you, Bae,_ Rumple wanted to tell him. Instead he said, "You remember that I went to Longbourn yesterday. And came back with that beggar."

With a little scowl, Baelfire nodded.

"Well," he continued after a short sigh, "I went to Longbourn because I wanted to sell something. Something other than wool."

The boy perked up like an alarmed rabbit. He didn't speak. He was barely patient enough to keep still.

"I did well at the market. But then, on my way back, I, uh, lost my things. Had an accident. I'm all right, but . . . well, that's how I met the beggar. He helped me. On the way home, he told me about a place where I could . . . sell this other thing without worrying about . . . having accidents."

This lie wasn't serving as the best explanation, he realized too late. Bae's confounded expression said as much. Rumplestiltskin scratched the back of his neck. He would have to try the other approach he'd considered. The one he was much more loathed to use. "Son - you've heard about magic-users, right? Sorcerers, wizards, witches."

"Yes," Baelfire said slowly.

"What've you heard about them?"

The boy shrugged. His eyes never strayed from Rumplestiltskin's face. "They have magic powers. Some are born with them, I think. Or they're cursed with them. Or they sold their soul for them. I've heard different things."

Rumplestiltskin nodded. "And how are they described? Are they scary? Kind? Untrustworthy?"

"I-I don't know. They're powerful, so I guess they're a bit scary. Why are you asking?"

Of course it would take Bae hardly any time to arrive at that question. Rumplestiltskin winced but found the will to move off his chair and, without his staff, walk to the spinning wheel. Both Baelfire and Till watched him. When Rumple sat down, Till got up. Sniffing as he went, he walked around his master and squatted to the right of the spinning stool. Rumple petted the dog, then reluctantly gazed at Baelfire again.

"I don't want you to be afraid, my boy. Maybe this will scare you, which is fine, but you know that I wouldn't do anything to hurt you. Ever."

"Papa, it's just a spinning wheel." Bae stood, eyes widened. They hungered to know what his father was getting at, and anticipated something terrible at the same time. Rumplestiltskin wanted Bae to stay seated so he wouldn't be afraid from being too close, as well as from the phenomenon itself. His son approached him, though. So Rumplestiltksin followed his instincts and encouraged him to come near. Bae did, stopping only to give Rumplestiltskin the usual room needed to spin.

He smiled and nodded to his boy. "Watch closely."

One end of the wool strand was already hooked to the bow-shaped flyer and wound a few times around the bobbin. He took the shapeless, unspun clump in his left hand, then with the fingers of his right fed the stretched strand through the spindle while his foot tapped on the treacle and set the wheel and flyer in motion. It was how he'd always spun, and how every spinner before him and every spinner after him would perform his trade. Only Rumplestiltskin paid attention to more than the twisting fibers, the tension bands and the rotation speed. He paid attention to the fluttering sensations in his body from toes to fingers. That spark usually frightened him as it danced along his nerve-endings with nothing to concentrate on. Now he had a point of focus. He had the wool, the wheel, the hypnotic rattling of pegs and axles. Inhaling through his nose, Rumplestiltskin let the frenetic power rush into his hands. It was a subtler incarnation of the blast he'd released against Garth's entourage. A dizzying surge, and then calm. Another surge, calm again. The ebb and flow of the magic soon synchronized with the turning wheel.

"Look at the wool," he said.

He didn't look himself. He didn't want to see Baelfire's face right away, at the moment of discovery. The boy's gasp almost did him in and made it impossible to continue. He had to stamp out any doubt Bae might still have, though, so he kept spinning a little longer. Spinning like this, magic or no magic, felt more right than Rumplestiltskin wanted it to.

"P-papa!"

His foot stilled. The wheel kept turning on its own momentum. Rumplestiltskin rested his hands and, with great sluggishness, lifted his eyes.

Baelfire's mouth hinged open like a broken nutcracker. His eyes, dark yet shining like a lake at nighttime, stared at the gold thread now circling the bobbin, which caught the sunlight from the doorway. The boy's face filled with surprise, as expected. Shock, too. But as the seconds passed, an emotion Rumplestiltskin didn't let himself hope to see drowned out the sheer shock. It spread to his mouth and transformed the slack 'o' into a gaping smile.

"That's amazing! H-how do you do it? Have you always been able to do that? Can you teach me? How it does work?"

The cascade of questions would never have ended had Rumplestiltskin not crushed his son into a hug and ruffled his hair. He begged him to rest his tongue with a promise that he would tell all he could.

There were still things the spinner couldn't speak of about the history of his powers. He avoided his parents and Maxmillian, the boy-turned-snail. Thankfully Baelfire's questions rarely drifted into those waters. They preferred to grasp the mechanics of the magic. In that there was little Rumplestiltskin could explain except what sensations he felt. When his boy wondered if there were other things he could do with magic, he couldn't resist a modest demonstration. He was sorely out of practice. With extra concentration, however, he sent a breeze through the house that stirred the straw-covered floor and the bundles of leafy greens and dried herbs on dangling hooks. He also took a candle and with a burst of warmth in his chest ignited a flame. Baelfire's excitement was magnified with each act. It saddened Rumplestiltskin when he had nothing else to show.

"I feel I can do more, but I can't control it yet. I was never taught how to use it, even in desperate situations like . . . like protecting myself." He'd almost said "like during the Ogre Wars," but he hadn't told Bae anything about that. All the children knew about the wars, naturally, having been born into that time before the monsters retreated to their own lands for unknown reasons. Other families had probably told their little ones about the village coward, and why he bore that title. Bae might have known, too, but right now it was easier to pretend otherwise.

"Is there anyone who can teach you?" asked Baelfire.

Rumplestiltskin pulled in his hands. Tempted as he was to shrink away from the question, like he shrank away from anything that made him anxious or uncomfortable, he held his head up and locked his eyes on Bae's. "The beggar told me of a school where someone like me could learn how to harness magic. And I could learn other things. Become an educated man. Which means, my boy, we can have a new life."

The innocent excitement on Baelfire's face dimmed, as if the sun had ducked behind a cloud. "Where is the school?"

Rumplestiltskin hesitated. "In a city called Hamelin. It's a long way from here. To the east."

Baelfire was still just a lad. Not old enough to worry about the problems of the world. It broke Rumplestiltskin's heart to see the furrows in his forehead, and how much older they made him look. They were a sign that Baelfire was beginning to understand what his father hadn't the courage to say outright.

"Does this mean we have to leave?"

"I'm afraid so," said Rumplestiltskin. His voice quaked.

"So, all my friends . . . I'll never see them again."

"You don't have to think of it like that!" Rumple grasped Bae's little hands. Coarse fingertips and palms gently rubbed tamer callouses. Baelfire's hands weren't permanently misshapen yet. If he could help it, Rumplestiltskin would not let suffer any more hard labor. "Once we have enough money, you'll be able to visit."

"Do we have to go?"

The question took Rumplestiltskin by surprise. After letting it settle, he observed the pain and worry in Baelfire's face. It shamed him that he expected his son to jump on board with this plan when Rumple had resisted it for so many years.

"No, Bae. We don't have to go. But try to understand why this would be good for us. For so long I've kept my magic a secret. I could have used this gold to buy us a new house, and new clothes, and we wouldn't have to shear sheep and spin wool. But I didn't because I was afraid of how people would react. I thought we might be driven out, or worse."

Baelfire licked his lips. Rumplestiltskin slowed his breathing to stay collected. He could imagine what Bae was thinking about. The summer evenings with Cuddy and other boys hunting fireflies and snakes in the glen. The bright afternoons with Morraine playing knights or kicking around his favorite ball. Stolen moments between chores lounging or running in the fields, Till close on his heels. He might have been thinking about just his responsibilities with the sheep and the house and the satisfaction they gave him. What he would have to give up to embark on a new life in an utterly new place.

A small swell of panic swept through Rumplestiltskin. "Bae, we don't have to do this." It seemed the courage he mustered last night was all for not. "A new place, new people . . . it can be frightening."

"It's not that," Baelfire muttered. "I just wish I didn't have to leave my friends."

"I know."

He _would_ have known had he any left. Rumplestiltskin's boyhood had been a lonely one, with the exception of his aunts after losing both his parents. And they weren't so much friends as caretakers and disciplinarians. Maxmilian had become a friend of sorts, but that didn't count. A snail can't tell you what he really thinks of you. Sadly, that was the only kind of friend Rumplestiltskin could afford.

When it seemed they had nothing left to say, Baelfire softly asked if he could do his chores now. Rumplestiltskin let him, and assured the boy that they had time to think it over. Bae nodded and went outside.

Only they _didn't_ have much time to think it over. The approaching semester and the last day to enroll were in a month, but a trek from the Frontlands to Loramaine would take at least a week by foot. Once they were out of the duchy, Rumplestiltskin could sell a gold strand or two to pay for a wagon, but his recent escapade at Longbourn made him wary. He'd rather leave sooner than later and give them time to find a new house, settle down and learn more about the university and what was required to get in.

Rumplestiltskin did not bring it up again with Baelfire for a few days. He did start taking note and jotting down lists of what they could bring with them, and what he would have to sell. One day, when Baelfire left to play, he hobbled to the village library looking for maps of the Frontlands, the kingdom of Loramaine, and the places in between. A handful of rough sketches later, Rumplestiltskin started plotting the best course through other regions of the West Duchies - the Midlands, the Marshlands - then the long leg across the kingdom of Flore before reaching the border of Loramaine. He found Hamelin on a more detailed map. At first he hoped they could head directly southeast, but the highways illustrated on Flore's map dodged around a large river that cut through the land and the thick patches of forest that pervaded not only Flore, but most of the Realms. After considering his options, he opted for one of the wide roads that moved through Flore and ended in Dem. Before reaching the city-state, he and Bae would make their exit from the highway a little ways north near the Loramaine border.

As Rumplestiltskin set himself on that plan, the librarian came round behind him and surveyed the map through small spectacles.

"Where are you traveling to?" the balding scholar asked.

"Loramaine," said Rumplestiltskin after overcoming his apprehensive surprise.

"Oh, don't go through Flore, lad. King George has raised the tariffs around his borders again. Doesn't take well to foreigners unless they have coin to give away."

The spinner, his eyes growing tired from squinting at the fine inked lines of the maps, hung his head and groaned. "What, then?"

"Take the southern highway into Galleo. The king there is a good deal more generous to his people. You won't have nearly as much trouble."

"But I need to get to _here._" Rumplestiltskin pointed to the southwestern corner of Loramaine. "It will take me two weeks if I go through Galleo!"

"Better through Galleo in two weeks with pockets full than through Flore in one with pockets empty. If you have enough to get across the borders at all." The librarian bent his head over Rumplestiltskin's shoulder. Rumple cringed under the scrutiny.

"Did you just make these copies?"

Rumple swallowed. "Y-yes."

"You have a good eye, and a good hand!" The old man peered into his face. He had a kind look, but the light from the library windows hid his eyes behind the glass lenses. "I don't think I caught your name."

Sucking in a breath, Rumplestiltskin gathered his sheets and the charcoal stylus. "Forgive me, I forgot the time! Thank you for your help." He clutched his things to his chest with one hand. The other wrapped around his staff. He averted his eyes from the librarian as he staggered out.

"Wait!" called the librarian. "I didn't mean any offense. I only-"

By trying to avoid the old man now following after him, Rumplestiltskin made the mistake of keeping his head and gaze down. It was a matter of seconds before he walked into someone. He managed to keep a grip on the map sketches in his arm. The other person, a woman in the company of a friend, lost her books. She cried out as paper and leather covers rained on the floor. "Gods! Mind where you're going!"

Rumplestiltskin profusely apologized and scooped up the books for her. He met the eye of someone who appeared to be about Milah's age, and carried the same wrinkles of a housewife near the end of her prime. He recognized her face the way one recognizes a spouse's friend. Her companion also matched that description. It took a few seconds to remember their names. The two women were sisters.

"Good day, Drizella," he said, expecting a blow at any moment. "Good day, Anastasia."

Drizella, primly accepting her books from him, slipped them under her arm and flared her nostrils. "Look who decided to crawl out of his hole. You have some nerve, Rumple."

"Don't bother with him," said Anastasia, gripping her sister's arm.

"It was an accident," Rumplestiltskin said weakly. He tried to step by with some grace, but his staff and Drizella's merciless glare made him feel even clumsier than usual.

"Yes, I'm sure it was. How's the leg, by the way?"

Rumplestiltskin lowered his eyes. He let the cold question hit him square on the head. There was no use trying to dodge it.

"Mind where you walk next time, Rumplestiltskin," Drizella snarled. She walked away arm-in-arm with Anastasia to some more favorable corner of the library. Before they went too far she glanced back. "We wouldn't want you hurting the _other_ leg, would we?"

He squeezed his eyes shut. Even Milah hadn't stooped to such low mockeries when she was in that mood. None he could remember, anyway. He chewed on the inside of his lip. He wanted to leave, but the humiliation robbed him of much willpower. Some came back as he remembered why he had this limp everyone else regarded as the mark of a coward. He'd had his reason, which was now out driving the scant group of sheep he owned into the field, his fit young form and muss of brown hair a paragon of innocent beauty. Baelfire was still worth it all, and he'd done right by him. He had meant to do the right thing by him. Intent had to mean something.

"You're Rumplestiltskin?"

The same named man opened his eyes and turned around. The librarian kept his distance this time. Droopy but lucid eyes stared out through the spectacles, looking as though they'd made an unwanted discovery.

The spinner gulped. "Yes."

"I figured you left the village long ago." The scholar spoke flatly yet still with civility.

Rumple wished he had left. Even when he was not being spat on or insulted, he could feel cold resentment creeping into the librarian's demeanor. As much as he could justify why he injured himself and ran from the battlefield, he couldn't entirely blame people for hating him. So many had lost husbands, fathers and sons. Many still carried the pain of that loss. In their eyes, they'd died bravely. They'd died with honor and grace. And so he lived in shame.

"I guess it's about time I did," Rumplestiltskin quietly replied.

The librarian frowned more sadly than bitterly. "Perhaps it is."

Rumplestiltskin returned home with redoubled certainty. But he still waited another day for Baelfire to consider it. Worried yet decided, he brought up the subject the next evening over supper.

"What do you think, then, Bae? About the move?"

Blackish-brown eyes rounded. Baelfire set down the plate of stale bread he was passing to his father. "Oh. I thought I'd have more time."

Rumplestiltskin tapped his fingers on the table and gave a nervous, breathy laugh. "I know I said that. But actually, if I'm going to get into the school, we have to be there before the last day of enrollment."

"What's that?"

"It means there's a certain day by which everyone who wants to go to the school has to sign up. We have about two weeks to get there. Which doesn't give us much time."

This news drove Baelfire into a deeper state of consternation. He kept up a struggling, serious look throughout the rest of the meal and said little when pried with questions. Rumplestiltskin didn't know what to do. It was of course wrong to place so much pressure on his son. But time was running short. Feeling helpless, he retreated to the wheel after they cleaned up dinner, and once again practiced his magic. Before going to bed, Baelfire came up to him, crouched down and examined the gold with eyes and fingers.

"It really is gold," he said, lighting up with wonder.

For a glowing moment, his son's words filled Rumplestiltskin with pride.

Bae looked up at him while still holding the end of the gold strand. He thoughtfully stared at his father. "Papa, I'm not unhappy here. A bigger house and more food would be nice, but I don't mind being where we are."

Rumplestiltskin shivered. He paused his spinning and stared back. Of course Baelfire would think like that. His boy was good and strong. Uncomplaining, willing to take on anything. "I just want what's best for you," he whispered. He brushed Bae's bangs out of his face. His throat closed shut from a sob waiting to come.

"I would be happy anywhere as long as I have my family," said Baelfire. "So if leaving means you can make this gold without getting in trouble, then let's go."

Rumplestiltskin forgot about his leg. He forgot about the idea of manly dignity his people upheld - the importance of stoicism and the weakness in sentimentality. It had never meant much to him for one reason or another. The spinner swept all concerns aside, dropped to his knees, hugged his boy and cried.

* * *

They could take only what they could carry. Thankfully, being as poor as they were, there wasn't much. It was still hard for Rumplestiltskin to sell his wheel. It had been his Aunt Camryn's, who had properly mentored him in spinning, while Aunt Finola taught him how to weave and Aunt Horatia taught him to sew. For all the teasing and disadvantages he faced being raised by his mother's sisters - or had they been cousins? - he was grateful for their lessons and the gifts they'd bequeathed. It was unnerving letting go of this part of his past. Yet there was liberation, too. He and Baelfire needed a fresh start.

The hardest parting wasn't with any object they owned, or even the house or sheep. Given the house's meager size and shabby state, he was lucky the dairy farmer was willing to take it off him for a handful of coppers. The worst bit came when Rumplestiltskin realized Till couldn't come with them. Bae nearly backed out of the whole thing when he learned that.

"No! He has to come with us! He's family!"

"But he needs the country's open spaces, Bae. We'll be living in a city. That's no place for a sheepdog. He'll be miserable if he comes."

Baelfire would consent only if he picked the new owner. They kept Till with them until they were ready to leave. Morraine came to say goodbye and take the dog home with her. Rumplestiltskin, bundled to the hilt with clothes, basic cookware and food, most of which he was able to stuff into a patched-up knapsack, watched his son cling to the shaggy beast while the girl knelt beside him and rubbed his back. Till's tongue lolled out, happily hanging and wagging with his pants. A few times he looked over at Rumple with half-questioning eyes. When Baelfire sniffled and pressed a kiss to his head, the dog closed his jowls and whined affectionately at him. Or maybe anxiously. Rumplestiltskin was a little glad he didn't know which.

"Please take good care of him," Bae said to Morraine.

"I will. We'll put him to good use, too. Mama likes the idea of having a watchful guardian."

"Just be sure to guard against your pantry," said Rumplestiltskin. "He loves sticking his mouth where it doesn't belong."

After Baelfire quickly hugged Morraine, Rumplestiltskin offered his hand for her to shake.

"Good luck, sir," said Morraine, accepting his hand.

"You, too, dear. Take care of yourself." Rumplestiltskin could not have been more grateful to Morraine. She and Baelfire were much alike. He knew her solely through his son. He was on as good terms with her parents as with everyone else, but she'd always shown courtesy and kindness. If they had chosen to stay, maybe one day Morraine and Baelfire would have moved on from friendship, and perhaps married. Rumplestiltskin didn't think about it too seriously - it was a father's innocent fantasy of what his boy would be like as a grown man, impressing his friends and making girls swoon. Bae was only ten, of course, and Morraine just a little older. But if Baelfire was set on returning to the village someday, there was still hope for a future between them.

Till started to look a bit startled as father and son walked down the road away from him. He was held back by Morraine's unexpectedly strong arms while he gave a few barks that nearly broke Baelfire's resolve. Rumplestiltskin held his shoulder to both comfort and propel him. Baelfire held out until they were almost out of the village, Till and Morraine well beyond sight. Then he started to cry. Sniffling sobs punctuated each step. His face was turned away from Rumplestiltskin. Only occasionally did he wipe his eyes and nose with a lightning-quick stroke. Rumplestiltskin combed his fingers through his son's thick hair. He made a point to not say anything except, in a whisper, "It'll be all right, my boy."

The spinner ignored the glares and stares from the locals as he and Baelfire exited the village they'd called home for much of their respective lives. No one said farewell. No one looked upset. But there were no whooping cheers, either, which Rumplestiltskin had thought well within the realm of possibility. He imagined everyone throwing a party, knocking mugs together over the cowardly spinner's overdue departure. He realized that in his fantasy he was at least remembered by his neighbors and fellow tradesmen. Even though they despised him, his leaving still meant something to them. The truth crashed down on him: they'd sweep away all their memories of him within a week. A month at most. An insignificant coward unworthy of mention, a name unworthy of remembrance.

Rumplestiltskin maintained a steady, slightly hurried march, even with his limp.

They didn't have to worry about meeting anyone from Longbourn; they were headed southeast, whereas Longbourn lay northward. That thought helped boost Rumplestiltskin's courage, although he still felt the usual tremors of leaving his village. Baelfire's presence helped him mind his nerves. He had to be brave for his boy now.

They traveled during the day and slept in whatever abode they could find by the twilight hour. Rumplestiltskin kept his maps on hand and frequently referenced them. He usually checked them when they stopped to rest (that is, when his leg began throbbing unbearably). Not every village in the realm was marked, so he had to perform some guesswork based on natural features like lakes and rivers and what looked like cultivated land. He also dared to ask random travelers where the nearest village was. Baelfire preferred to push on even when night descended if the next settlement was only a few miles off. Rumplestiltskin tended to agree with him, if only so that they could avoid sleeping in the woods and risk being sniffed out by wolves or other dangerous creatures.

There was always forest of some kind wherever they went, but there were places where certain aspects of the terrain changed dramatically. The Frontlands were generally flatter except for some areas that sloped like the lumps of a fluffy quilt. The Midlands, in contrast, rose and fell in picturesque peaks not big enough to be mountains, but tall and rocky enough to be more than hills. The region was also more densely populated, which made the matter of sleeping arrangements less hairy. Rumplestiltskin worked up the nerve to sell a few strands of gold to a goldsmith, which earned him twice as much as he got from the jewelry seller or the tailor in Longbourn. He immediately bought Baelfire and himself a new set of clothes and paid wagon fare that took them almost all the way to the southern border of the duchy. The fear of raising suspicion still followed Rumplestiltskin, but with their new clothes it could not have seemed nearly as impossible for them to be carrying something valuable to sell. He couldn't regret the risk while feeling his sleeping son's head on his shoulder, against the new red cloak that was warmer and softer than anything Rumple had owned in a very long time.

The Marshlands were something else. The land grew more mountainous in some parts while the rest collapsed into bogs. The roads had been carefully built to weave through the half-drowned terrain. Rumplestiltskin had seen such sights only in book illustrations. Baelfire had no frame of reference. On foot again, the pair got a bit sidetracked by Bae's curiosity and a near accident when he, stepping too far into the squishy mess of mud and cattails, got his foot stuck. Rumplestiltskin pulled him out at the price of the boy's boot. This minor crisis was enough for Rumple to hurry his son along, boot or no boot. It was harder for the spinner to hide his shaky hands.

Given how grim the Marshlands looked, it shocked Rumplestiltskin to encounter as many travelers as he did - mostly merchants from other duchies or kingdoms. They met one nomadic toy maker who happened to have a few pairs of children's boots on hand sold one set in Baelfire's size. He was also selling colorfully painted bandalores that caught Bae's interest. While the boy ogled the toys, the merchant explained to Rumplestiltskin that the ruling noble of the region, Sir Maurice, encouraged trade and even hosted festivals and fairs for innovative minds to showcase their wares. Nothing like them could be found outside of the city-state of Dem. Bae asked if he could have a the bandalore with the large bird on each side. Rumplestiltskin looked it over and noticed the delicate gold inlay in the carved and painted design.

"What is that?" he asked after paying. "A swan?"

"No, no, a phoenix," said the toy maker. "See? The edges of its wings are on fire."

Unable to help himself, Rumplestiltskin offered him one of his gold strands. The toy maker's expression spread open like the bird's wings and regarded him with excited astonishment. He asked if Rumple had more to sell. He took six strands.

The clanking coins in his purse reminded Rumplestiltskin of what he'd lost that day coming home from Longbourn. He was wary of being delighted at his success. He'd been just as excited then, and look what happened. But he couldn't stop smiling as Baelfire looped the thread of the phoenix-faced bandalore around his finger, snapped it down to the ground, and caught it when it rolled up the string. How Bae knew how to play with a bandalore was a curious thing. He must have spent quite a bit of time watching other children use them and envying such a simple pleasure.

Tempting as it was to learn more about these fairs and this noble, Rumplestiltskin pressed them on. They hitched another ride on a passing flour cart headed for the Southland. This region had the most dramatic landscape of all the duchies they'd passed through. White mountains rose in the distance and the forest grew thicker and darker than ever. During their passage a fog rolled into the tree cover and gave, as Baelfire put it, the impression that they were swimming through a bowl of soup. The ominous atmosphere rattled something inside Rumplestiltskin that made him both frightened and intrigued. Even the Marshlands, sloppy and wet and rather ugly, seemed pleasant in comparison. The people were more standoffish than anyone they'd thus far met. Some of the grimness in the expressions of laborers tilling the fields and hauling their carts of hay and manure were familiar to Rumplestiltskin. The townspeople back in the Frontlands shared these looks when the Duke levied another tax or decreed another draft.

The nights in this duchy felt the deepest. Owls screamed like children and, even in the snug cocoon of a tavern room, startled Rumplestiltskin awake. They gave him passing dreams of young girls and boys being dragged off to war by soldiers. He checked that Baelfire was still in the bed next to him, oblivious in sleep. Even after he did, the spinner lay awake for a long time and saw the first purple-pink tints of morning seep into the horizon.

A week passed before Rumplestiltskin and Baelfire left the West Duchies at last, crossing the border from the Southland into Galleo. The change was not instantaneous. The forest was dense as ever and carried some of the weightiness of the Southland's climate. Gradually, though, the tree cover opened up and let sunshine in. The air warmed, and more frequently the pair sloughed their cloaks, both of which Rumple offered to carry. During the this longer portion of their journey, they lily-hopped from town to down in day-long treks, and at each stop Rumplestiltskin investigated which might be the shortest route to Loramaine. Many gave the same advice as the librarian: the shortest way would be to go back northward into Flore, but the border guards would not treat them gently. He could chance taking a boat upriver. Along with going against the current, though, a person would have to navigate stretches of rapids and waterfalls. Rumplestiltskin, after further reviewing his maps and weighing the dangers against the time saved, proposed that they follow the river for a while and chance the rougher woodland paths. Baelfire agreed, but not before expressing his concern for his father's increasingly aching leg. Rumplestiltskin begged him not to worry. As he said so, he unconsciously massaged his bad knee.

He intended that they follow the river for three days. The first two days somehow felt longer than any others while traveling through the duchies. The less trodden paths along the river slowed their progress. Rumplestiltskin had to be careful going up and down the sudden slopes. One especially steep ascent beside a waterfall that gushed and sprayed them with mist almost sent father and son tumbling backward a few times. Neither of them dared to stop for rest until they were safely at the top of the fall. Once they did, amazingly in one piece, Rumplestiltskin found a boulder to sit. He straightened his burning leg and caught his breath. This was the morning of the second day.

"Is there anything I can do?" asked Baelfire.

"It's fine." Rumplestiltskin waved one hand. The other gripped his staff so hard his knuckles bleached white. He played off his gasping as chuckles. "We can rest for a bit."

Bae bit his lip. "We just did, Papa."

The winded spinner shut his eyes. He didn't even have the strength to groan or reprimand.

"Sorry, Papa."

"It's okay, boy. Why don't you scout a little ways ahead and see what it's like further along?"

The boy took off. His leaving gave Rumple a moment to indulge in a whimper and some lip-biting while he tried to situated his pained appendage. _It'll all be worth it_, he kept chanting in his mind.

He lazily dropped the pack of supplies to the ground, then took off his cloak and laid it down on the ground. Yellow and brown leaves had started dropping and were peppering the river bank. Another reminder than autumn was imminent. So was the scholastic semester. Rumpelstiltskin must have been mad to think he could do this in his condition in two weeks.

Kicking that thought away, he lay down on the cloak. His muscles hurt everywhere, not just in his leg. He hadn't exerted himself this much in a long while. Even before his injury. Before the war. Rumplestiltskin stretched out flat on his back so his limbs could splay around him and let every part of him relax. He stared up into the overcast sky and wondered if his luck was running out quicker than he realized. It would probably start raining soon, and with the next village at least ten miles off, they'd never find shelter in time.

Rumplestiltskin shut his eyes and rested. His arms didn't hurt so much, so he folded them over his chest. At least the mist from the falls salved his face in refreshing coolness. Every part of him became too heavy to move. The most he could manage now was rolling his head toward the river and watching it run by, a glass body in constant motion. Clear and free and fluid. Everything he wasn't. He was a solid, klutzy thing, painfully limited and killable.

Awareness of his mortality suddenly gripped him around the throat. He forced himself to breath and keep his head clear. No, no more fits. No more panicky episodes. He couldn't let his son see him like that. He really shouldn't let Bae see him on his back like this, either. But it felt _so_ nice. He could tell him he was just taking a nap.

In fact, he was sincerely considering the idea, but a noise changed his mind. He wanted it to be the rumble of the falls. So very badly. But the sound came from the wrong direction. It was on his right side, toward the forest. When he heard it again, it was closer, and it belonged to something big, alive, and probably hungry.

Self-preservation instincts kicked him into action. Rumplestiltskin rolled back over and sat up. He came face to face with a bear. About his size with teeth and claws cleverly hidden away at the moment. Its head was lowered. Black eyes were on Rumplestiltskin. Then they were on his knapsack. Rumplestiltskin felt as if his stomach would fall out of him. The bear stalked closer, its fur rippling over a hearty bulk of fat and muscle.

He was a dead man if he tried to fight it off. It was either him or the food the bear must have smelt from the sack. Rumplestiltskin grabbed his walking stick and poked the bag toward the beast. The bear came closer. It occurred to Rumplestiltskin that he was a dead man either way. Even if he wasn't so tired, his leg would've made flight impossible. He was entirely at the animal's mercy.

The bear bent down to sniff at the bag, then plunged its nose inside and latched its jaw around a wad of garments that was hiding a wrapped up bread loaf, a bushel of carrots, and some jerky. The animal pulled the food out, sniffed again. Rumplestiltskin waited for the bear to dig in.

All at once it seemed to lose interest. The beast looked at Rumplestiltskin again and moved in. Rumplestiltskin scrambled back a little toward the water. Suddenly he was aware of a pulse of something deep in him. He recognized it. It came when those brutes from Longbourn first attacked him. Still gripping his staff, Rumplestiltskin focused on the pulse and the bear at the same time. As the bear got closer, the pulse's strength increased. He felt it expand at a slow rate.

_I can do this._ He panted through his teeth and hoped the force in him would go off before his head or neck was between the bear's teeth.

A roar broke out across the river and the woods. It didn't come from the bear. In fact, when the bear heard the roar, it whipped its blocky head around. Rumplestiltskin looked in the same direction. He gasped. Another bear about the same size as his assailant was charging them. Full speed, teeth flashing, another roar bounding out of its huge mouth. The first bear bolted into the woods, up the river. Rumplestiltskin went into a panic. Bae had gone that way! Panic for his own life lowered for a second when he watched the second bear chase after the first. But then it came back to him looking even more determined than its predecessor. He tried to crawl to his feet with his staff for help, but the bear was almost on him by the time he stood.

"Are you all right?" asked the bear in a feminine voice.

Rumplestiltskin froze up. He stared and wondered if he was already dead. And if in the afterlife bears could talk.

"I said are you all right?" the bear repeated in a more frustrated tone.

He didn't say or do anything for a minute. Then he looked at his hands. Wiggled his fingers. Slapped his wrists. He looked at the bear again. "Did you just . . . speak?"

The bear grunted. "What do you think?"

Rumplestiltskin, holding onto his staff for dear life, circled around the bear. "I-I-I have to find my son."

"You mean the boy? He's fine. I told him to climb up a tree until I dealt with that fella there." She nodded where the first bear had run off.

"Why should I believe you?" Speech did not make a bear trustworthy any more than it made an ordinary man trustworthy. Rumplestiltskin was still inclined to believe this was an illusion.

"I'll bring him back over." The bear sprinted away as quickly as a bear can. Rumple watched her go, feeling numb in the fingers and toes. His eyes never left the spot where she disappeared into the trees. Sure enough, she came back with Baelfire behind. Beautiful Baelfire, unhurt and waving to his papa. Rumplestiltskin ran to his son like his life depended on it.

"Thank gods you're okay!" he cried while squeezing the child against his chest.

"Papa! Can't breathe!"

He set Bae down and regarded the bear in disbelief and gratitude. "So, you're not going to eat us?"

The bear shook her head. "Don't you think I would have by now if I were?"

Rumplestiltskin helplessly tossed his hand. "It's not everyday you meet a talking bear."

"It wasn't always like that." His rescuer's mood grew melancholy. "Are you lost?"

Rumplestiltskin assured her they weren't - they were just making poor time. They needed a shortcut through the kingdom to reach Loramaine before the week was up.

"I'd be happy to help if you have food to share," said the bear.

"Yes, of course." Not sure how exactly one was supposed to introduce himself to a bear, Rumplestiltskin attempted a bow. He said his name.

"Ayla," said the bear with her own bow. "And you, young one?"

"Baelfire." The boy was beaming, not the least bit afraid.

With introductions out of the way, and once Rumplestiltskin retrieved his cloak, the knapsack and its contents, Ayla wasted no time leading them to their destination. The group followed the river for the rest of the morning, but after breaking for lunch she explained they would need to turn northward now and skim the border into the kingdom of Flore.

"What about the border guards?" queried Rumple. "And the tariffs?"

"There are spots less guarded by the king's men because the forest frightens them away." Ayla chuckled at that. "They have a right to be afraid, but it seems strange that men who wear so much thick covering and carry weapons should not have more courage."

Ayla was used to coming and going through the kingdoms without worrying about guards or tariffs. Understanding this, Rumplestiltskin reconciled himself to the idea of sneaking into Flore and making all haste to Loramaine.

"What if we get caught?" asked Bae, more curious than worried.

"Don't worry," Ayla said. "They won't keep you if I'm around."

The next four days were a combination of hard treking through tangled underbrush, finding alternative food sources when supplies ran low, and sharing stories about their respective lives. The human paired learned that there used to be many more talking Beasts throughout the land, but over the last four decades, for some reason, there were fewer and fewer of them. Most of the mute animals who came from Beasts were simply born without the ability and went to live with other animals. Both of Ayla's parents were dead and half her siblings had no speech. It'd been some time since she'd met another Beast.

"But now I'm hearing other rumors," she continued. Her voice was shrinking to a whisper even though no one could possibly be eavesdropping on them. "Word is there are Beasts who _could_ speak at one time but have also lost the power."

"Why?" asked Baelfire.

"No one can say. It may not even be true. I've yet to see it myself."

During their conversation, a part of Rumplestiltskin's mind drifted to the question of magic - if magic was what gave these Beasts speech, or if that was what had began taking it away from them. "Is there magic that affects that sort of thing?"

"Magic?" Ayla raised her furry brow. "I have no idea. We Beasts have good instincts about magic. If there were some mischief going on, somebody would have noticed."

Rumplestiltskin nodded and let it go. Consciously, at least. After they slipped over the border into Flore, having dodged a few sighted soldiers, he and Baelfire said their goodbyes to Ayla. He felt a tug toward the Bear as he gave her head an appreciative pat.

"Thank you for everything, Ayla."

"Good health to you," she answered. "And I hope one of us finds out more about that problem."

He remembered what she'd told him and felt that tug again. There was probably nothing _he_ could do, but he flashed Ayla a reassuring smile, anyway.

It was another three days before they reached Hamelin. Three days of crossing a strip of the land that belonged to the notorious King George, then getting into Loramaine and approaching their goal. The border patrol into the northern kingdom accosted them (much to Rumplestiltskin's initial terror - he thought they were King George's men), asked briefly about their origins and destination, then let them continue on. Once that was over with, the spinner was infinitely more at ease. He felt comfortable traveling on the roads again. While the forests of Flore and Loramaine weren't very different from those of Galleo, the terrain did seem kinder. There were fewer rises and drops Rumplestiltskin had to struggle over. They also met a woodcutter on his lumber wagon and paid him a few silvers for a ride. The woodcutter agreed to take them to a village only ten miles from Hamelin. Rumplestiltskin and Baelfire, almost equally bone-tired, agreed to stay a night in the village and finish the journey to the city tomorrow.

Coming into Hamelin was unlike anything either of them had experienced. Quite done with walking, Rumplestiltskin talked to the owner of the inn they sojourned at about transportation. He learned that a wagon coach came through at certain times to and from Hamelin. The pair took the morning coach. The land became hillier as they traveled further into the kingdom, but the hills made their first view of the metropolis all the more incredible. The coach took a high road that surmounted a crest overlooking the city. What Rumplestiltskin and Baelfire saw was a banquet for the eyes. White buildings topped with brick-red roofs numbered in the hundreds and speckled the vale. The snowy white houses and shops gave the impression of cleanliness and prosperity. They varied in size, some two stories tall, some larger and longer. A fewer particularly impressive buildings could be picked out from the cluster. A golden-brown one towered above most. It was nestled close to a wide river that cut the city down the middle. Hamelin was larger than any village or town either of them had seen.

It bore some similarities to Longbourn, except Longbourn was smaller and had dirt streets and hardy gray buildings. Hamelin's buildings up-close had a more delicate but still resilient affectation. The white walls seemed to be cast from plaster, and were supported with long beams that were as decorative as they were necessary. Whereas some of Longbourn's buildings were only a story or two, every single edifice loomed tall in Rumplestiltskin's eyes. The coach jolted over the cobblestone roads that snaked through the city.

Rumplestiltskin inhaled deeply to stop his head spinning. He asked for directions to the nearest inn.

Once they were settled and resting at the inn, Rumplestiltskin turned his thoughts to the next crucial step. Finding a place to live in a city for the first time was like making one's way through a forest blindfolded. As he worked on the matter, his anxiety spiked at frequent intervals. When it did, he fought to squelch or hide it in front of Baelfire. On the first day after their arrival, he was terrified of losing his son in the crowd both at the inn and in the teaming streets. He kept him close and made an extra effort to give the impression he had some idea what he was doing.

The innkeeper offered some instructions and advice on how to seek housing. From there Rumplestiltskin spent the first two days studying the city map and making lists of landlords and locations based on his limited resources. He also found Hamelin University and noted how far the campus was from the available flats. It was hard to concentrate sometimes. He needed time to wrap his head around living in a flat instead of a house. The innkeeper explained what living in a flat would entail: neighbors who lived above or below you, or mere feet away from your front door; not having an outdoor space except the front stoop and the street; the landlord would provide a key to their rooms, and it would be wise to lock their door at night and whenever they were out. It'd been some time since Rumplestiltskin lived in a place that had a door at all.

On the third day, Baelfire insisted he accompany his father on the flat search. "I have to know there will be enough space for my things."

"And what things would those be?" asked Rumplestiltskin with a teasing grin.

"I don't know yet. I just want to make sure there will be room when I _do_ get them."

While Rumplestiltskin got a laugh out of that, it was a reasonable request. And he still didn't like leaving his boy on his own yet, even in their room at the inn. Walking from one landlord office to another became an opportunity to explore the city, to memorize its geography and places of interest like the library, the laundry house, the money-changers, shops whose owners and craftsmen might be interested in his gold threads, and the grocer. Some time was spent waiting in line or in a room with other people looking for residences. Baelfire had only his new bandalore to amuse himself with during these boring waits. He tried to teach himself a trick called "walking the dog". He's seen one of the boys back in the village perform it. The user had to maneuver the toy so that when he threw it down, it would stay down and keep spinning on its axis, and then he could roll it across the floor as if the bandalore were an animal. Unfortunately Bae couldn't get it. His annoyance mounted with every attempt. At one point he threw the toy so hard the string slipped off his finger and it went flying. It hit a woman across from them square in the chest. Rumplestiltskin begged his apologies to the angry and injured woman and confiscated the bandalore. He sternly told Bae he'd get it back later when it wasn't a safety hazard.

This left Baelfire a bit grumpy for the rest of the proceedings. He scuffed his boots on the floor while Rumplestiltskin, on his turn, talked out his situation and the affordable options available to him with several landlords.

"You're going to enroll at the university?" the last landlord they saw asked, a dark-skinned man in his prime whose relative youth gave him a more compassionate demeanor than Rumplestiltskin excepted of someone with the title.

"That's right."

"How will you afford it?"

Rumplestiltskin's muscles tightened in his neck. "I'm sorry?"

The young man smiled amiably. "I only want an idea of your situation. The university can be expensive from what I hear. Are you paying full tuition, or are you being sponsored?"

"Oh. I . . . I'm afraid there's a lot I don't know about it. I'm going there as soon as possible to find out. Before enrollment ends."

"You'd better be quick about it," said the landlord in a well-meaning way. "Although you could wait to enroll next spring, if you think your financial situation will be more stable then."

Rumplestiltskin couldn't commit to an answer yet. But he made it clear that the flat in the north end held his interest, and he'd be able to pay the security deposit. In his mind he frantically wondered where he could get his hands on a spinning wheel.

"Where are we going now?" Baelfire asked as they left the landlord's office.

"To look at his flat. Just to be sure it's not in the middle of a manure heap."

"Ah." The boy's mood was better, but he stared up at his father with begging eyes.

Rumplestiltskin smiled and took out the bandalore. "Mind if I give it a try first?"

Baelfire's eyebrows jumped up. "You know how to use it?"

"Give me some credit, son! I'm a spinner." With that he snapped the toy up and down a few times before throwing it down and making it stay down while it spun so quickly the phoenix was just a golden blur. He lowered it to the ground and began walking away from Baelfire. The wooden plaything bounced against the cobblestones. The boy gaped indignantly and chased after him.

"You're cheating! You're using magic, aren't you?"

"Depends on what kind of magic you mean," his father said. The long walk to the flat became a lecture in bandalore physics and mastery.

When they reached the block of flats owned by the young swarthy landlord, an elderly woman poked her head out a window by the entrance when she noticed father and son loitering. She turned out to be the doorkeeper, and possibly the landlord's mother going by their similar complexion and eye color. Rumplestiltskin explained his interest in looking at the available room. What the concierge showed them was far from the dramatic change in lifestyle he'd fantasized about. It surprised him a little that the building, while just as pristine-looking on the outside as any other, became a sad, cramped thing on the inside. It was livable, though. Not very different from the meager hut they'd left behind. And it wouldn't be a permanent situation. Rumplestiltskin kept his hopes high with the promise of the new skill set and knowledge he'd earn at school, and how using them would make his and Baelfire's life what it should be. Baelfire closely examined the storage spaces - cabinets, closets, and a musty chipped dresser a former tenant left behind. He eventually gave it his restrained approval.

On their way back to the inn, the pair crossed in front of a shop that had Rumplestiltskin stopping and doubling back. A sign hung over it that read _The Fox & Cat_ in curling gold letters. In its front window there were displays of clocks, kitchen spoons and rolling pins, marionettes, and little figurines of birds, bears, dogs, horses and deer. It was a woodcarver's shop. Rumplestiltskin knew a carpenter might be more promising, but he took a look inside anyway, which revealed pieces of furniture among the merchandise, too. A little bell rang as he and Baelfire entered the shop. No one was present. It gave them a chance to poke around and admire the meticulous work that went into each piece. Rumplestiltskin noticed Bae linger by the display of dogs, and how longingly he pet one that had the same shape and black-and-white pattern as Till.

"Would you like that?" he asked his son.

Baelfire sharply withdrew his hand. "No. It's all right."

"You sure?"

The boy nodded and moved on to a nearby group of engravings on the wall between two sets of shelves. Some portrayed scenes of pastoral life like farmers collecting grain and children dancing at a harvest festival. Others were of the city. Most also featured children at play. Some kids ran in the streets with hoops and pets. Baelfire didn't much notice how many of the carved pictures were populated with children. Rumplestiltskin did, and felt both sympathy and puzzlement.

"Sorry to keep you waiting!" said a man who came in from another room with a curtain over the doorway. He was tall and bald. He owned a gray beard and kind old eyes. His face was wrinkled and lightly pock-marked. A brown apron covered his humble clothes, suggesting he had been busying on a project when they came in. Rumplestiltskin didn't recognize his sing-song accent.

"Not at all," said Rumplestiltskin. He made his inquiry about a spinning wheel.

"I don't make spinning wheels myself, but my old neighbor who just closed up shop was a carpenter and asked me if I could sell off some of his wares. I'm quite sure there are a few in the back. Come, come!"

The spinner and his son followed him through the curtained doorway into the workshop. Rumplestiltskin jumped at the sight of half-finished marionettes dangling from the walls. He suffered an abrupt memory from his childhood - the day the clerics and village leaders hung Madame Holda and a few other people convicted of witchcraft. He and his mother had been caught in the crowd and pulled in by the spectacle. He didn't remember where his father had been that day - maybe at home sleeping to recover from a hard morning of poor fishing, or at the tavern doing the same thing. His mother tried to cover his eyes when the lever was thrown and the bodies were dropped. Just before that, he swore that Madame Holda, whose eyes swept over the crowd, had stopped on him. And he swore that her little smile before the executioner pulled the trapdoor switch was meant for him.

"Here they are," said the woodcutter, directing Rumplestiltskin's attention to one corner where a few spinning wheels were stored. Relief helped Rumplestiltskin breathe more freely as he looked them over. Although there was a castle style wheel that would save them space in their new tiny flat, he preferred the other two that more closely resembled his old wheel. He chose the pine specimen over the mahogany one. The second was beautiful with its shine-polish and red-brown wood, but more expensive. While money would hopefully not remain an issue for long, he erred on the safe side. The pine wheel was stable and functional, so he was satisfied with the purchase.

"I started to worry I would be stuck with these," said the woodcarver as he carried the wheel to the shop's front room. "Not many city folk make their own yarn."

"We've only just moved from the countryside," said Rumplestiltskin.

"Looking for opportunity?"

"I'm hoping to enroll at the university."

"Ah, excellent! I have a friend who is a professor there. Very good place. What will you study?"

"Still deciding." Rumplestiltskin quickly took out his money pouch to pay and go.

"Well, I wish you luck, sir. My friend is Dr. Hopper. Tell him Geppetto told you about him. He's a very smart fellow."

Rumplestiltskin thanked him, slipped his arm under the wheel's base board and hoisted it up. He turned to go but saw Bae holding a bear figurine. "Could we get this, too, Papa? It looks like Ayla, doesn't it?"

It did. There was something in the soft eyes and the curve of the lumpy neck as the bear glanced back that was reminiscent of how Ayla led them through feral wilderness and, he was sure, protected them from hungry predators with her presence. Rumplestiltskin smiled. A minute later they both said goodbye to Geppetto again, each carrying their respective purchases. Baelfire tucked the bear into one of his pockets and helped his father carry the spinning wheel back to the inn. Although there were still ten or so yard-long strands left in the knapsack to sell over the next few weeks, Rumplestiltskin stayed up half the night spinning more gold. It calmed him like nothing else.

* * *

_A/N: bandalore - historical name for the yo-yo_


End file.
